


Exit Wounds

by capMARVELOUS



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Bad Decisions, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Character Study, Drinking, Facing The Consequences Of Those Bad Decisions, Gen, IN SPACE!, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Occasional Filler, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Dark Cybertron, Prowl Joins The Lost Light, Prowl Slowly Tries To Not Be A Dick, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2020-12-21 10:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 96,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21073769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capMARVELOUS/pseuds/capMARVELOUS
Summary: The consequences of Prowl's actions finally catch up with him as he is assigned to theLost Lightfor rehabilitation.  Unfortunately, almost everyone on board hates him, and the five bots who don't are the last ones he wants to see.(A "Prowl/Constructicons on theLost Light" AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl and the _Lost Light_ers receive some very bad news.

“You’re **_WHAT?!_**”

The last word, drawn out from a growl to a shout, echoed strongly through the small back room of the Raskol Arena. There was a ringing in Prowl’s audials; whether it was because he had shouted that loudly, or because he was just that furious, he didn’t know. And he didn’t care to find out. All he cared about right now was glaring at the calm visage of Optimus Prime before him with an intensity that could have lit a bomb fuse, barely registering Rodimus’ bewildered expression right next to him.

“You can’t do this to me, Optimus!” the black-and-white bot protested.

“As much as I hate to say it, I gotta agree with Prowl on this one,” piped up Rodimus. “Putting him on my ship? The whole crew’ll go insane!”

Optimus crossed his arms, his expression unchanging behind that mouthplate of his. Primus, but Prowl wanted to punch it off right then. “I’ve already made up my mind,” he said. “Prowl will be transferred from my command to become a _permanent fixture_ of the _Lost Light_ crew.” The emphasis on _permanent fixture_ made Prowl’s hands shake.

“You can’t do this to me!” Prowl repeated, his anger hindering his ability to come up with new statements. “You can’t just chuck me onto a ship full of losers like… like a piece of trash!”

Rodimus winced. “Ouch. Bit harsh, mate.”

Prowl ignored him. “Is this how you treat me, Optimus? After all I’ve done to serve you? After all I’ve done for the greater good of Cybertron?!”

“After all your string pulling, manipulating, and acting outside of common conscience,” Optimus said. “Your cavalier actions have caused much more harm than good, especially lately. Bumblebee and Rodimus told me everything. About Ratbat’s assassination. About the Devastator incident. About Overlord. _Everything_.”

Prowl scoffed. Of course Bumblebee would go tattle to Optimus. Bumblebee, that little rat who prioritized the flimsy notion of Autobot-Decepticon peace over his own brothers. Bumblebee, who had spent so much time trying to work with the enemy that he had failed to see their machinations right under his nasal ridge. Bumblebee, who was now dead because of the very Decepticons he had tried to protect.

Optimus continued. “This kind of behavior can’t keep going on, Prowl. I know you want Cybertron to thrive. I really do. But we can’t stand to maintain the peace we’ve fought for all these years by acting outside the laws we’ve sworn to uphold. And I can’t risk having you be responsible for opening a can of worms we can’t close without even greater sacrifice.”

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made, Optimus! You’ve said that yourself!”

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made _when there is no other option_.” The Prime’s mechanical brows began to beetle.

Prowl dug his fingers so hard into his head that he thought he might gouge dents in it. “Please,” he said weakly. “Take me with you to Earth. You’ll fail without me. You _need_ me, Optimus. You _need _me! **_YOU NEED ME!!_**”

“I need you… to take off your blinders, and change.”

“Change. _Change_.” The word tasted bitter as Prowl said it. “You need me to change? You think bots can just… change? You think that you can give just anyone a second chance and expect them to change? Bots don’t change, Optimus! Bots like you don’t change, bots like Bee don’t change, bots like the Decepticons don’t change! **_Bots like Megatron don’t just fragging change, no matter how much you want them to!!_**” He knew he was rambling. He knew he was just repeating the same thing over and over again. But he didn’t care. He just kept shouting, barely registering Optimus’ rapidly darkening visage. “No matter how many second chances you give them, bots like him, bots like them, bots like us will always go back to the way they were! I’m the only one who’s had the ball bearings to acknowledge that and do something about it! _You all_ are the ones who are blind!”

And then Optimus Prime slapped Prowl.

Silence fell heavily on the room. Prowl was vaguely aware of Rodimus putting his hands to his mouth in shock, Optimus bringing his hand back to his side. The sentio metallico of his face, where the Prime had struck him, burned. He could feel his own hands jitter almost uncontrollably with rage, contorting into claws. In that moment, the shine in his optics was hotter, more intense than the brightest star. He gave one final furious look at Optimus…

And practically threw the room’s table at him, leaving imprints in the steel where his fingers had crushed it. Naturally, the Prime sidestepped it.

With that, Prowl turned on his heel and stormed out.

Through the back halls of the Arena he stomped, not knowing where he was going, and not caring where he ended up. All he was focused on was his anger with Optimus. Anger at being blamed for all the mayhem that had occurred in the past several months. Anger at being cast aside like gutter filth. Anger at _Megatron_, of all bots, dodging his rightfully earned execution and being granted a second chance, while he, Prowl, was meted out punishment instead. It was all enough to make his energon boil (which it was, though he ignored his screaming internal diagnostics).

He didn’t deserve this.

_He didn’t deserve this._

Primus, could he just stop repeating his thoughts? That made him even angrier.

His storming transitioned to a power walk, then a regular walk, then a shamble as his energy ran out, the adrenaline of his rage finally wearing off. He slumped against the wall, the steel cool on his doors, and rested his head in his hands, caressing the spots where his fingers had, in fact, slightly dented his cranium.

“Rough day?”

Prowl looked through his hands to find the source of the new voice, and his rage returned.

Because he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going, he had failed to immediately register that he had ended up sitting on the wall directly opposite Megatron’s holding chamber. The Decepticon- Prowl refused to think of him as anything else- sat on the floor staring through the spaces between the bars, hands bound tightly with binder cuffs, the makeshift Autobot badge still stuck on his chest. Every strut in Prowl’s frame wanted desperately to just pull a blaster and shoot through that badge to pierce the spark behind it, shoot until there was just a smoldering hole in its place. It was a mockery of all he had stood for during the war.

All these days of prosecuting Megatron, just for his efforts to fail. He wasn’t used to failure. Failure was an unfamiliar experience to him. Perhaps that was why he was so mad.

Prowl did not answer Megatron. He would not give him that respect.

~

“Primus,” Rodimus muttered as he and Optimus returned the room’s table to its proper upright position. “That was, uh… that was the exact opposite of what I was expecting.”

“I shouldn’t have hit him,” said Optimus, his expression now weary. “I know I shouldn’t have. It’s just… Prowl makes it very hard for me to keep my composure sometimes.”

Rodimus nodded. “I know the feel.”

“Prowl has a good spark, and good intentions,” continued the Prime. “But his methods are lacking, and he thinks he can get away with too much. He needs to learn that his actions have consequences, both for him and for others he drags in with him. Spending time on the _Lost Light_ should help him learn, and if not learn, then at least begin to understand.”

“But… do you really think it’ll be that beneficial?” asked Rodimus, cocking an eyebrow as he leaned against the wall.

“I hope so.” Optimus rested his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

“I meant for my crew. Do you think it’ll be good for my crew? ‘Cos they all hate Prowl. Like, they really hate him. Really, really, _reeeeeally_-”

A look from Optimus shut him up.

“You’re right to be concerned, about your crew, though, Rodimus,” sighed Optimus. “I know that Prowl’s actions had a significant impact on you all, so their… distaste of him is understandable. Perhaps spending enough time with one another will be good for both parties. However unlikely it may seem right now.”

“Alright, Optimus.” The Prime could tell that Rodimus was still uncomfortable with the scenario. To be frank, so was he; he didn’t trust Prowl to behave himself while unsupervised. He didn’t _want_ to trust him like that right now. But he had to. He had to, because it was his belief that bots _could_ change. Bots like Megatron, bots like Bee, bots like the Decepticons… bots like Prowl.

A ping from Rodimus’ wristpad interrupted them. “I gotta go; ship inspection needs conducting. Any other bombshells you wanna drop on me before I leave?” he asked.

“Just these instructions,” Optimus said.

~

“Swerve?”

Skids called out his friend’s name into the largely empty space of Swerve’s, the bar named after its proprietor stuck in the very center of the _Lost Light_. The sound of a rivet gun had drawn his curiosity, and he had followed it here to investigate. The few patrons huddling about didn’t seem to mind the noise, but he himself needed to know exactly what it was coming from.

Aside from, obviously, a rivet gun.

“Down here!” came a familiar voice from a spot on the floor. Skids took a few paces and found Swerve hunkered down on his knees. A rivet gun was in his hands, and several misplaced rivets were scattered around the table he was working on. “Skids! Old buddy old pal, what’s shakin’? I’d love to get you a drink, have a chat, if you’ll give me a bit to finish this up.”

The blue bot pinched his chin. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Taking precautionary measures,” the red minibot said as he positioned the nozzle of his rivet gun on the foot of the table. “Haven’t you heard? Prowl’s gonna be joining us, Prime’s orders. So I figured I’d bolt down the tables in case he ever decides to have one of his tantrums in here.”

“What happened to the ‘crewditions?’”

“I got found out. They were revealed to be nothing more than a sham! A farce! A third synonym! Magnus is gonna conduct an official passenger screening later. Blame Nightbeat.”

Swerve pulled the rivet gun’s trigger, and a _pop-hiss_ sounded. He withdrew the nozzle, delight on his face… only for his expression to darken as he discovered that somehow, the rivet he had just fired had ended up on the underside of the table instead of the foot.

~

“Prowl!”

“Did ya talk to him?”

“Is it true about Megatron?”

“Are we goin’ with him?”

“Yeah, do we get to join the _Lost Light_ crew?”

Oh, Primus.

Prowl left the confines of the Raskol Arena to get a vent of fresh air, having grown tired of his stare-off with Megatron, only for him to stumble into five familiar green-and-purple lumps of barely sentient metal lounging outside the back door. The Constructicons- Mixmaster, Scavenger, Long Haul, Hook, and Bonecrusher. The five bots who were all tied for second place in the constant contest to see who could lubricate him off the most; no prizes for guessing who was in first.

“No,” he said bluntly. “_We_ aren’t joining the _Lost Light_. _I_ am. _You_ are staying here, far, far away from me and my head.”

One of them- either Bonecrusher or Hook, it was hard to tell since they had matching visors- whined. “Aw, come on, Prowl! Let us go with you!”

“We promise to behave ourselves!” the big one- Long Haul- added.

Prowl turned on his heel and proceeded to lay into the Constructicons. “I don’t care what you promise!” he shouted. “I don’t want you lot anywhere near me! Being forced to share my mind with you against my will was the worst experience of my life, and I’ll be fragged if I risk that happening again!”

Scavenger started, “But-” but Prowl cut him off. He was practically screaming now.

“Whatever you see in me that draws you to me, you need to stop seeing it! Because it doesn’t exist! Get it through your thick domes! _I don’t want anything to do with any of you! **I don’t want to see any of you ever again!**_”

And he tromped off again, leaving the Constructicons to stare at his doors and whimper like kicked cyber-dogs. _Good._

~

With the _Lost Light_’s inspection finally completed, and the bridge crew and engineers already accounted for, the official passenger screening was underway. Ultra Magnus stood at the top of the ship’s boarding ramp, feeling the vibrations through his feet as the engines began to thrum to life. With him stood veteran security officer Aquafend, who was temporarily filling in the vacancy left by Red Alert; the pair made notes and checked off boxes on their datapads as, slowly, the long queue of bots made their way inside the ship.

Magnus had insisted that the bots who had expressed interest in boarding line up alphabetically, to save him the trouble of swiping up and down on his datapad unnecessarily every thirty seconds. They were well into the “P” names now. Pointblank (whose carry case contained a load of half-finished memoirs)… Powerflash (he liked Powerflash; always good to find another bot on this ship who shared his affinity for regulation-following)…

_Prowl._

The black-and-white bot shuffled forward, arms crossed, sulking heavily and refusing to make eye contact with Magnus. Whereas all of the bots who had boarded previously had brought with them a carry case or some sort of personal belonging (all of which had been rigorously inspected, as per _Lost Light_ protocol), Prowl had nothing. Naught but the chevron on his forehead. Magnus recalled their confrontation during the Shockwave calamity, recalled how he had described Prowl as the loneliest person he had ever met. And in this moment, standing here with no possessions among bots who held no positive regard for him in the slightest, Prowl certainly seemed very lonely.

“Prowl,” said Magnus tersely, looking down at his datapad.

“Magnus,” Prowl replied in kind, looking down at his feet.

“Prowl of Petrex. Serial number 092161723. Constructed cold. _Former_ head of Autobot Special Operations.” Magnus made sure to place emphasis on _former_, if only to watch Prowl squirm as he was reminded of his stripped rank. “Reason for boarding today?”

“You know why.”

“Of course… special orders from Optimus Prime. Any personal items that would require inspection?”

“No.”

“Have you anything to declare?”

“If those five try to follow me on here, shoot them.”

He knew the five that Prowl was referring to, and he hated that he knew. “Duly noted.” Magnus sighed, then checked off a box and made a note. As Prowl made to board, however, the tall blue bot held out a large hand to stop him, catching him on the chestplate. “One more thing, Prowl. Immediately after launch, you are to report to Rodimus’ office to receive special instruction, by further order of Optimus.”

Prowl silently stared at Magnus’ hand for a few moments. “Get your hand off of me,” he finally snarled.

Magnus did so, watching Prowl shamble on board the _Lost Light_ and pointedly ignore Aquafend’s attempted- and failed- friendly expression. He wished he could have subjected Prowl to a more vigorous processing, but in the end it didn’t matter how intense his inspection was- Prowl would have ended up coming with them anyway. Prime’s orders were Prime’s orders, and they must be followed.

The queue continued to drag along, all throughout most of the night. Magnus and Aquafend continued their inspections, alternating turns between every bot. They were just reaching the “T” names now, and there were quite a lot of “T” names. Magnus afforded himself a glance at the horizon; at this pace, they would definitely be late for the dramatic sunrise takeoff that Rodimus had stated loudly and repeatedly that he wanted. What Rodimus wanted, however, would have to take a back seat to proper protocol, as per usual.

“Takedown of Pescus Hex,” began Aquafend, following the process that he had gone over with Magnus several times before the screening had begun. “Serial number 351-”

“_Wait!!_”

A shout pierced the relative silence of the launch pad. Magnus and Aquafend tore their gazes away from the queue and the datapad, respectively, scanning the environment intensely to discern the source of the cry. Squinting, the tall blue bot could discern five shapes trundling their way. Each one towed a large black box of some sort behind them. Each one… was a construction vehicle. And each one was very, very green.

“_Attention, Security Division!_” Magnus called into his personal ship’s intercom speaker. “_Code orange, I repeat, code orange! Potential hostiles approaching the_ Lost Light_!_ _This is not a drill! I need ten additional units to the boarding ramp prepared to take necessary counter-measures!_” As he made his summons, Aquafend prepared his own blaster, and aimed it in the direction Magnus pointed.

Almost immediately ten colorful bots poured out of the entry hatch, shoving each other- as well as Magnus, Aquafend, and Takedown- aside. Ten blasters of varying sizes followed Magnus’ finger, pointed at the approaching Constructicons, and charged up, ready for action.

There was a clatter and a clank as the Constructicons transformed mid-transit, flopping over themselves in confusion and anxiety at the sight of so many blasters pointed at them. There was a brief scuffle as they argued over which black box- now observable as almost comically oversized carry cases- was whose, after which they finally got to their feet. Two of them raised their hands in surrender.

“Wait! Don’t shoot!” one of them- the one nearly as tall as Magnus- exclaimed.

“Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t,” Magnus called imperiously.

“We’re not here to fight!” the same one said. “We’ve got no weapons!”

Magnus glanced down at the assembled security officers. “Search them,” he ordered. They did, subjecting the Constructicons to a rigorous patdown and examining every nook and cranny of their carry cases, searching for hidden compartments, concealed weaponry, anything that could be even slightly incriminating. They were bunglers off-duty, Magnus had to admit, but they were also a more than acceptable security force.

After several minutes, during which he got through Takedown’s screening (seeking a vacation after retiring from his foreman position was not a very strong reason to board, but his skills as a shipwright could come in handy later), Magnus was approached by Aquafend, who offered up his datapad for investigation. “Pictures of their cases’ contents,” the security officer said. “Nothing objectionable upon first inspection; figured I’d hand it over to you for peer review.”

Tools, empty mixing containers, several decks of cards, paint… none of it seemed immediately objectionable. Aquafend had certainly provided a thorough catalog of images.

Reluctantly, Magnus ordered, “Stand down for the moment, Security Division. But _do not_ lower your guard.”

“What in the name of the Pit is going on here?!” a familiar voice asked; Magnus turned to find Rodimus emerging from the _Lost Light_’s depths, an annoyed expression on his face. “You’d better explain why you called security out here so urgently, Magnus, ‘cos you got all the bots inside in a right tizzy!”

Then he caught sight of the Constructicons. “Oh. That’s why.”

A second Constructicon, distinguished from the rest by way of the large scooper arm affixed to his back, stepped forward, an earnest expression on his rough approximation of a face. “Please, we aren’t here to fight,” he said. “And we aren’t here on anyone’s orders except our own. We… we want to join the _Lost Light_ crew.”

Immediately, Magnus and Rodimus replied in perfect sync. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Come on!” the Constructicon whined.

“How do we know that this isn’t a ploy so you can break Megatron free and bring him back to your side?” Rodimus asked, pointing significantly at the Decepticon insignia still present on the spokesman’s chest.

The Constructicon looked down at his chest, taken aback for a moment. “Oh! Don’t mind these! We’ve ditched the Decepticons real good; we just haven’t had the time to take these off!” he said. (Magnus rolled his optics at the misuse of grammar.) “And anyway, we’re not here for Megatron; he treated us like scrap for as long as we knew him! We don’t care about him! It’s _Prowl_ we’re interested in!”

Ah, yes. Prowl. Magnus remembered the fondness they had shown for him back during the Shockwave calamity. What they saw in him, he couldn’t figure out in the slightest; he was completely unaware if it was a byproduct of their gestalt bond, or just sheer dumb devotion.

“Don’t care. Answer’s still no,” said Rodimus.

A third Constructicon, this one with a mixing barrel in place of a backpack, piped up, “You gotta understand, sirs, we don’t just like Prowl, we’re _responsible_ for him! Just as much as he’s responsible for us! The gestalt process implants this… sort of… mental bond, a bond that’s dependent on the well-being and close proximity of each of its components! Why do you think we always show up everywhere together?”

“Ever since Scrapper bought it way back when, our bond’s been achin’ something mighty, but Prowl combining with us fixed it right up! We wanna look out for him, both as thanks for repairing our gestalt bond and as a way to make sure he doesn’t suffer the way we have!” concluded the original spokesman.

Magnus took several moments of silence to process the Constructicons’ reasoning.

Rodimus, however, did not. “Fair enough. Come on in.”

The Constructicons’ faces lit up; Magnus’ face fell simultaneously. “You can’t be serious!” he said. “You’re changing your mind, just like that? You’re actually going to let them onto the _Lost Light_?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Rodimus. “Just like that. Security’s already inspected them and found nothing incriminating, right? And they’ve just stated their reason for wanting to board.” The captain tapped the datapad in Magnus’ hand, where the passenger boarding information was stored. “If it all checks out, then who’s to say we can’t let them board?”

“Me,” intoned Magnus. “Having one ex-Decepticon on my- our- ship was stressful enough.” He was, of course, referring to the long-gone Drift. “Having another on board will surely push me to my limits. That’s two ex-Decepticons too many. But taking on five additional, not formally disavowed Decepticons, who _haven’t even removed their faction insignia yet?_ I’m all but guaranteed to suffer an aneurysm.”

Rodimus rolled his optics. “Oh, whatever. Look, Magnus- the _Lost Light_’s been home to 208 disenfranchised, wayward souls for the past year or so. By the looks of it, we’re set to be host to just about 300 now. What do five more matter?”

“They matter if they’re Decepticons.”

“Didn’t you hear them say they’ve ditched the ‘Cons? Were you not paying attention to that part of their spiel?”

“No. I was distracted by the Decepticon badges on them.”

“We’ll take care of that bit later. Just let them on. Remember when Tailgate was having thoughts of Decepticonism and we helped him get over that? We’ll do the same thing for the Constructicons.”

“But-” Magnus wanted to protest that Tailgate hadn’t been a lifelong Decepticon who had had their beliefs ingrained in him for eons, and that Tailgate had never posed a risk of spontaneously combining into a mentally unstable gestalt, but Rodimus interrupted.

“We’ll take ‘em in, keep a sharp eye on ‘em, and if their story’s legit and they behave themselves, we can keep ‘em. If not… we’ve always got an airlock.”

Magnus sighed. “I’m not going to be able to convince you otherwise, am I?” he asked.

Rodimus beamed as he snatched away the datapad. “Nope. This is gonna lubricate Prowl off so bad, and I can’t wait to see how he reacts.” How petty, Magnus thought. The captain continued, “Go inside; I’ll finish the passenger screenings.”

Turning back to the Constructicons, who had been eagerly awaiting the final verdict, Magnus reluctantly called, “Constructicons… get in line.” As the big green bots tumbled excitedly forward to the boarding ramp, carry cases bouncing behind them, the tall blue bot took his datapad back. “_I’ll_ finish the passenger screenings; you’d just ignore the checklist entirely to make things quicker.”

“Slag, you right.”

~

Prowl sat on the edge of the recharge slab shoved into the corner of his spartan hab-suite, staring at the small datapad that had been handed to him by a bot on the Security Division. He hadn’t been given a window suite; the harsh light of the datapad was all the light that reached his optics.

Apparently datapads like this one were being given out to all the passengers. It provided files detailing pre-launch, mid-launch, and post-launch procedures, some minor paperwork from Magnus, as well as a map of the _Lost Light_ and all its amenities. Prowl was sure, however, that the other passengers’ pads did not have the additional items that his had- a duplicate map of the ship with Rodimus’ office outlined in red, and just enough space for an additional two files. What would fill that space, he had a good guess.

He wanted to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. No amount of gritting his teeth and just trucking through it would make this nightmare ride end anytime soon. So used was he to having free space to operate, that this newfound confinement really got under his plating.

How was he supposed to keep Optimus from making any fatal mistakes on his trip to Earth, when he, Prowl, was going to be stuck on the far side of the galaxy with likely no way to reach him, physically or otherwise? Optimus was setting both of them up for failure.

A knock sounded on his hab-suite door; tossing his datapad aside, he got up to open it.

Five green bulks crowded in the doorway, each one nervously grinning at him.

…

Rodimus’ dramatic sunrise takeoff certainly got a whole lot more dramatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! thanks for taking the time to read.  
the inspiration for this story came from a late-night reading of [Over to You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719976/chapters/46670518), which is a pretty neat fic so far. i wanted to do something with the same prompt (that prompt being "prowl on the _lost light_ au"), but i also wanted to do something much different with it. hence, vastly different opening chapters, and vastly different content planned for you wonderful/terrible people.  
(hi crimsonseekers if you're reading this i'm sorry we have the same prompt)  
i really wanted to have the characters curse in full earth terms but ultimately decided against it to maintain the authentic transformers experience.  
new chapters should be added every other week, but with my inconsistent schedule, expect fluctuations here and there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl and Rodimus have a clash of egos, and the Constructicons settle in.

“You good, Prowl?”

“**_H U R G H_**”

“I don’t think he’s good.”

“I’m fine. I’m- **_B L E A R G H_**”

“Nope, he’s not good.”

“Want me to hold your chevron back?”

“**_E U R G H H_**”

“Whoa, Prowl! Where’d you learn to do that thing with your middle finger? You gotta teach me sometime!”

Prowl had never been on a ship equipped with quantum engines before. As such, he was unused to the sudden sensation of hurtling across the galaxy in a severely truncated timespan. The _Ark-19_ had been a fast ship, but not this fast. The _Lost Light_’s spontaneous rearranging of the very fabric of space and time had the unfortunate side effect of also spontaneously rearranging his fuel tanks- what was previously inside a few minutes ago was now outside.

The black-and-white bot wiped at his mouth, remaining hunched over with his other hand against the wall just in case anything decided to show up last-minute. Thankfully, nothing did, although his fuel tanks now rumbled mightily with the ache of being suddenly and violently emptied. He shot the Constructicons an angry side-glare. (Why weren’t they hurling their insides up, he wondered? Were they more used to this sort of experience than he was?) “Done gawking yet?” he growled.

“If you’re done… y’know,” said either Bonecrusher or Hook. Prowl still couldn’t tell them apart.

No matter if he couldn’t tell them apart; telling the Constructicons apart was the very last thing that he wanted to do. Grabbing his datapad and roughly shoving them out of his doorway, he trotted down the corridor and around the corner, out of their line of sight. He felt their optics follow him all the way.

He looked at the datapad in his hand, at the copy of the map that highlighted Rodimus’ office. He had been instructed to see the captain after launch to receive further instruction… but he saw no reason why he shouldn’t familiarize himself with the _Lost Light_ on his way there. If he was going to be stuck on this Pit-bound bucket of bolts, he might as well figure out where everything he would need was located. And in the event of the inevitable catastrophe, he’d definitely need to know where to find the absolute safest place to avoid it.

Plus, he needed time to cook up some _choice words_ for Rodimus about allowing the Constructicons aboard.

~

“Um… bye, I guess,” called Mixmaster weakly after Prowl.

“At least he didn’t yell at us this time,” said Hook. “That’s an improvement.”

“I probably shouldn’t have asked to hold back his chevron,” Scavenger said sadly.

Bonecrusher laughed. “Are you joking? If you hadn’t, I’d have never gotten to see that finger thing he did! I’ve _really_ gotta learn how to do it.” He began fiddling with his hands.

“Guys, cut it out,” said Long Haul, holding up a beat-up datapad, “and come here. I saw some of these being handed around to the other bots who were boarding, with a bunch of information on them or something, so I asked for one. This one’s different from the others; I think they ran out.”

“Well, we _were_ kinda last-minute…” said Mixmaster. He, along with the other Constructicons, huddled around the large bot to get a view of what the datapad held for them (ignoring the tiny Scavenger’s cries of “Move over! Let me see!”). A map of the _Lost Light_ shone up from the display, with one space on the lowest deck circled hastily in green. Further observation revealed that the map was the only file on the pad.

“What’s so special about that circled room?” asked Mixmaster.

“That’s a boiler room, you dolt,” Hook barbed.

“I know it’s a boiler room, slag-head,” Mixmaster sniped back. “Why is the boiler room circled?”

“I wanna see!” said Scavenger.

“I think… that’s where we’re supposed to be staying,” said Long Haul.

“That’s a fat crock of slag!” Hook exclaimed. “I don’t wanna stay in some dump of a boiler room at the bottom of the ship, I wanna stay up here! With all the other bots! And Prowl!”

The other Constructicons murmured assent.

“I’m gonna go ask ‘em for a proper hab-suite!” said Hook, stomping off to find some bot on staff and air out his grievances. Scavenger followed eagerly in his wake.

Long Haul and Bonecrusher glanced inside the hab-suite that Prowl had left open in his haste to get away from them, then down at themselves. It was clear what they were thinking- that maybe the reason that they hadn’t been assigned a hab-suite of their own was that the sheer volume of the combined lot of them and their giant carry cases (Scavenger’s alone was bigger than he was) wouldn’t be able to fit in one. They shared a significant look.

“Betcha I can cram you and all our carry cases in there without anything spilling out,” said Bonecrusher.

“Betcha you can’t,” replied Long Haul.

~

Prowl tried visiting Swerve’s.

“Uh-uh! No, no, no no no! Ten! _Ten!_” the red minibot shouted as soon as Prowl got near the bar’s entrance.

As if out of nowhere, a giant of a bot suddenly filled the doorway and cast a shadow over Prowl. Its golden plating was scuffed, dented, and chipped; numerous unrepaired battle wounds marked it up further, and there were several crossbow bolts still stuck in it. There were no optics in its head, and its jagged jaw hung slightly open, allowing a disquieting grinding to emanate from it. Prowl knew what kind of bot this was- a Legislator. He had seen bots of this ilk hanging around Chief Justice Tyrest around the time the latter had started to go insane. One of them being here could only mean bad news.

“**t e n . . .**” the Legislator rumbled menacingly.

Crouching down into a ready stance, Prowl readied his acid pellet wrist launchers and the two rockets over his shoulders, the weapons thrumming in his audials as they prepared to unleash the Pit on the bot blocking his way…

“NO! Stop it right now!” Swerve cried in distress. “I am _not_ gonna let you shoot my brand new bouncer on his first day on the job!”

Prowl paused. “Bouncer…?”

“You like him?” Swerve asked. “Me ‘n Jackpot found him way back after the whole deal on Luna 1- you know, when Tyrest tried to snuff out every single knockoff spark in existence, remember that?- and we whacked him back into shape! He can’t even come close to passing the Ambus Test, but he sure as the Pit enforces the bar rules!” He pointed to a sign on the wall, upon which was written in bold letters **NO GUNS, NO SWORDS, NO BRIEFCASES**.

“**t e n .**”

“What’s rule number one, Prowl? No guns! Right now you’re, like, 80% gun! And even if you weren’t, I still wouldn’t let you in until I finished bolting down the tables!”

Prowl was sure he could hear snickering from the other bots in the bar.

~

“They wouldn’t give us a hab-suite!” Scavenger complained as he and Hook rounded the corner to reunite with their brethren. “They wouldn’t even tell us why! They just-”

The smallest Constructicon’s words died in his vocal processor as he was greeted by a most unusual sight, even for him- Mixmaster sitting cross-legged on the floor fiddling with the datapad, seemingly oblivious to Bonecrusher straining mightily to keep a large amount of something from collapsing out of Prowl’s hab-suite door. Upon closer inspection, the large amount of something was revealed to be all five of their carry cases. And where was Long Haul…?

“Told you… nngh… I could fit you and our cases in here… nngh,” said Bonecrusher.

“Now try it without pushing on it,” came a muffled voice from somewhere in the mass of metal.

Bonecrusher released, and instantly, he and Mixmaster practically disappeared beneath the pile of big black carry cases. Long Haul came tumbling out on top of the heap soon after, clearly having a blast.

“See? You couldn’t do it after all. That’ll be 200 shanix, if ya please,” said the large bot mirthfully.

Scavenger bet that underneath all that weight, Bonecrusher was trying to figure out how to do Prowl’s finger thing and direct it at Long Haul.

~

Prowl tried visiting Brainstorm’s lab.

“Oh hey, Prowl,” said Brainstorm, poking his head out of the gap between his otherwise rigidly-closed doors. “Sorry you can’t come in, I’m busy.”

Prowl said nothing.

“Yeah, I’m just working on possibly the most harrowing, most dangerous, most monumentally life-changing achievement of my entire scientific career.” The teal bot’s optics turned up at the corners, which was about as close as a bot with no mouth could get to grinning. “You wanna know what it is? You want me to tell you the big important thing I’m doing?”

Prowl cocked an eyebrow.

Brainstorm could barely suppress his merriment; he started _giggling_. “_I’m painting the lab_. Atomizer’s helping; say hi, Atomizer!” He cracked open the lab doors a bit more, allowing Prowl to see a spiky red bot working a paint roller up and down the far wall. (Really? They were painting the lab _yellow?_)

“Hi!” said Atomizer, waving cheerfully.

“Nobody cares,” Brainstorm said, returning the door to its original position. “I’m kidding, of course; that’s not the actual big important thing, and I forbid you from finding out what is. But while you’re here, could you help me out with something?” Through the gap in the doors, he shoved a large, bulky blaster into Prowl’s hands. “Shoot this… down the hall that way.”

Before the black-and-white bot could even point it in the direction Brainstorm instructed, the blaster made a terrible hissing noise and started to belch sparks and smoke. Prowl shouted in alarm and dropped it, while Brainstorm tapped his chin causally.

“_Fascinating,_” he said. “Either I still have a lot of work to do on this… or even the unbridled absolutism of my morality-detecting gun can’t figure out where exactly you stand.”

~

“What a dump!” Hook complained.

“The floors haven’t been swept in ages!” Scavenger whined.

“The walls are covered in gunk and graffiti!” Bonecrusher moaned. “Who is Whirl and why do we need to know he was here?”

“The sound of the boiler is too loud!” Mixmaster griped.

“And there’s barely enough space for us and our carry cases!” Long Haul fussed.

…

“**_It’s perfect!!_**” they all cried in unison.

~

Finally, Prowl made it to Rodimus’ office. Flicking off his datapad, he reached up to knock, but the door opening of its own accord stayed his hand. He walked inside, taking note of the garish red the walls were painted, to find the captain of the _Lost Light_ himself doodling on his desk with a pocket laser. Everything in the room seemed to be vaguely shaped like his head; Prowl gritted his teeth, disgusted with the sheer narcissism.

“Prowl!” Rodimus greeted in a cheerful tone. “I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.”

“You allowed the Constructicons on board,” said Prowl, not bothering to return the greeting. “You allowed them on, even though they’re _still Decepticons_, and even though you know the risk of spontaneous combination they pose being with me in a space like this. Even though I told Magnus to shoot them if they tried to follow me on!”

Rodimus held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy there, Hoss,” he said. “Hear me out about that. First of all, who d’you think you are, telling Magnus what to do around here? Second, yes, I know the risk they pose being around you in here. Yes, I know that they’re technically still Decepticons and that the crew may not take a shine to that. But third, if you’d heard what they told me and Magnus out there on the boarding ramp, you’d know that they’ve got no sort of ulterior motive- no bringing Megatron back, no wrecking the ship from the inside, nothing- beyond wanting to _change_. They want to leave the ‘Cons behind, and we’ve got the means to help them do that. We- _you_\- can help them do that, if we just give them a second chance. The _Lost Light_ is a ship of second chances, Prowl. To deny those who want to try again the opportunity to do so… why, that’d go against everything the Autobots stand for.”

The black-and-white bot glowered. “You’re just talking out of your aft. You don’t actually believe any of that scrap; you just brought them on because you wanted to lubricate me off.”

Rodimus leaned back in his chair, and pointed jauntily at Prowl. “Bazinga.”

“Excuse me?”

“Something I’ve heard Bluestreak say every so often; I think it’s supposed to mean ‘you got it’ or something. Figured I’d give it a try.”

“Don’t ever say that in front of me again.”

Rodimus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin on the tops of his wrist struts. A smug grin spread across his face. “_Bazinga._”

~

“I spy with my visored eye… something that begins with… ‘F.’”

“Is it the floor?”

Bonecrusher bolted upright from where he had been lying on the floor, shocked. “How did you know?!”

“Because you’ve spied the floor for your past eight turns,” said Scavenger.

“Oh.”

~

“I want them gone, I want them off this ship, and I want it done now,” said Prowl.

“No can do; I already promised they could stay if they behaved themselves. Magnus and I’ll keep an eye on them, give them the same conversion therapy we gave Tailgate, and throw them out the airlock if they don’t keep in line. But _only if_ they don’t keep in line.” Rodimus added a new curved line to his doodles. “You know, we could use another bot to watch them-”

Prowl knew exactly what Rodimus was about to suggest. “_No,_” he said flatly, effectively shutting that idea down. “I refuse to be their babysitter.”

The captain shrugged and set down his pocket laser. “Suit yourself. Now, then, to proper business. Have a seat,” he said. Prowl did not sit. “Did you bring the datapad with you?”

Prowl wordlessly set the item in question on top of the seemingly random, yet strangely intricate, desk carvings.

Rodimus just as wordlessly slid the datapad in front of him and inserted a data slug into it; the outline of a horizontal bar appeared on the screen, filling with color as whatever was on the slug uploaded to the pad. “You and I both know why you’re here,” he said, lacing his fingers. “Both on this ship and in my office. Optimus wanted me to give you some instructions in his place, since you ran off before he could tell you himself. The written version is on one of the files I’m putting on your datapad, but I’m gonna go ahead and give you the verbal version too.” As he went through each point, the captain extended a finger.

“One. No security for you. No trying to get into the Security Division headquarters, no trying to enroll as a security officer, none of that. We’d all rather not have to deal with your version of ‘security.’

“Two. _Daily_ sessions with Rung. As we understand it, the whole ‘forced-mnemosurgery-mind-control-unwilling-gestalt’ thing left you…” He tapped his temple. “… a little wonky up here. Optimus wants to make sure you’re mentally fit enough to start returning to something like your old job before you actually start returning to it.”

“Do you send _all_ your ship’s nutjobs in for daily sessions to make sure they’re ‘mentally fit?’” snarled Prowl.

Rodimus pointedly ignored the barb about his crew’s inability to function. “And third,” he concluded, taking the data slug out of the datapad and handing the latter back to Prowl. “In addition to that written copy, there’s one more file on your pad. It’s from Optimus himself. You are _not to open that file_ under any circumstances; it’s set up to where Optimus will know if you do. And if you do- and I’m directly quoting Optimus here- if you open that file, then he’ll know that he’ll never be able to trust you again, and any chance of you going back to his ranks will be gone forever.”

Prowl’s audials perked up at that last bit. So there was a chance that he could go back to Optimus’ platoon and leave the _Lost Light_ behind? Well, then, by Primus, he’d _work_ for that chance, even if it meant taking his sanity to its limits by spending inordinate amounts of time around this band of morons. His brows beetled in anger; Optimus had been lying about him being a permanent fixture. Instinctively, he contorted his hand into a fist, beginning to crush the datapad still within it.

“Easy with that!” Rodimus cried. “Those cost 113 shanix each! Of Drift’s money.”

His grip loosened. “Anything else?”

“Yes, actually. One more instruction, not from Optimus, but from me. _Leave Chromedome alone._”

_Chromedome_. The name burned in Prowl’s brain module. _Chromedome_ was the one responsible for opening the flaw in his mind through which the Decepticons had stormed, back on Cybertron. _Chromedome_ was the one responsible for the Overlord operation’s violent reveal and subsequent utter failure. Everything that had gone wrong for him over the past long while could all be traced back to the mopey little mnemosurgeon. He would be only too happy to avoid him.

~

“Got any threes?” asked Mixmaster.

“Go fish,” said Long Haul.

Scavenger tossed a card face down onto the pile in the middle of the circle of Constructicons. “One queen.”

Hook triumphantly turned over his hand. “Full house.”

“_Uno!_” cried Bonecrusher, slamming his only other card onto the floor.

~

“That’ll be all,” finished Rodimus, resuming his doodling. “Enjoy the cruise.”

Prowl’s expression darkened further. “Is that the kind of regard you have for this little crackhead quest of yours?” he asked. “Is it just a cruise to you? Don’t you have any sort of plan? Any map? Any leads? _Anything?_”

Rodimus paused. “Well, we _did_ have a map when we first started…”

“But?”

“But we kinda… broke it.”

“You broke the map.” Prowl was incredulous.

“We have another plan, though!” Rodimus said. “We’re going to seek out Thunderclash for help in finding the Knights; he’s on the same quest we are!”

“Do you have _any_ idea how big space is? Thunderclash could be halfway across the known universe right now, and the odds of just so happening to find him are astronomically against you! And you’re just going to frag around in the _hopes_ that you’ll bump into ‘the greatest Autobot of all time?’ Your entire plan is based on hope and dumb luck?!” Prowl shouted.

“We’ve got quantum engines,” Rodimus said weakly.

“Those can only get you so far! You need more of a plan than just ‘randomly quantum jump all over the universe until we find what we’re looking for!’ What kind of a captain worth his salt plans that poorly? I’m absolutely appalled at this… _leniency_ in this mobile asylum’s leadership!”

The captain’s brows beetled. “Couldn’t tell,” he quipped darkly.

“You need to get your act together, Rodimus,” Prowl concluded, “or this cruise of yours is going to end in abject failure.” He scoffed. “Not that it wasn’t doomed right from the start.”

“_Excuse me?_”

“This ship was set up to fail the moment it took off from the launch pad. The explosion on takeoff, the sparkeater, the Delphi plague, the Overlord incident, the universal killswitch- I’ve heard all about it. And these constant disasters started the exact moment you placed your aft in the captain’s chair.”

Rodimus stood up sharply. “Are you saying that it’s _my_ fault we’re here?”

“_Bazinga,_” echoed Prowl, smirking.

“No, Prowl,” growled Rodimus, “it’s _your_ fault. The explosion on takeoff? That was because of _your_ agents. The Overlord incident? All you, baby. _You’ve_ been the cause of our disasters, not me.”

“Don’t act like your recklessness helped this load of idiots any.”

“It was my recklessness that ended up saving half the Cybertronian population! That universal killswitch deal? Millions of sparks saved because I broke the Matrix! _Including yours!_” Prowl was shocked. “Don’t think I don’t know, knockoff boy,” Rodimus continued, deliberately using the derogatory term for constructed cold bots. “I saved your fragging life that day; instead of standing here railing to me about how I’m an awful captain, you should be _on your knees, thanking me and begging for forgiveness for all you’ve done to hurt my crew!_”

“Your crew? _Your crew?!_ You’ve got to be kidding yourself!” screamed Prowl. “These bots aren’t your crew! They’re a bunch of nobodies, gutter trash who only follow you into the Pit and back because **_you’re the only piston-polisher around here with remotely enough charisma to get them to stop moping!_**”

The pair had drawn so close together during their shouting match that they now leaned on Rodimus’ desk, chevrons almost touching. They stared at each other, fury burning bright in their optics.

Finally, Rodimus broke the silence.

“Get out of my office, before I introduce my desk to your face.”

Once again, Prowl was only too happy to follow this order.

~

“Hold still, Mixmaster!”

“I’m trying! It tickles!”

“Uh, Hook? I think I smudged mine.”

“Scavenger, I told you not to touch it! You’re supposed to let it dry!”

“I’m sorry, I had an itch! Please fix it!”

“I will as soon as I finish with Mixmaster.”

The Constructicons were busy painting over their Decepticon insignias, to communicate more openly to the bots of the _Lost Light_ that they were leaving their old lives behind. Hook, being the most artistic of the bunch, was handling this duty, though Mixmaster’s twitching combined with Scavenger swiping at the wet paint every five minutes was starting to wear on his nerves.

“Hey, after this, wanna add our own graffiti to the boiler?” asked Long Haul, diligently picking up the cards all over the floor.

Several minutes and three more Scavenger repaints later, the words “Constructicons were Here” were smeared over the boiler in green and purple paint, along with each of their signatures.

~

As Prowl went back to his lonely hab-suite, he bumped into Blaster, the _Lost Light_’s communications officer, emerging from a seemingly abandoned hab-suite- number 015. The pair exchanged scowls before Blaster marched off in the opposite direction. Prowl would have moved on himself, but his optics were drawn to a slight glow coming from inside the hab-suite; curious, he looked inside.

Upon the solitary recharge slab was arranged a small memorial. Candles, offerings of innermost energon, and numerous alien knickknacks surrounded a reflection, captured with a piece of Forever Glass, of a blue minibot beaming behind his mouthplate. A plaque beneath read simply-

_In Loving Memory of Pipes of Helex_

_Died 2013 at the <strike>hands</strike> foot of Overlord_

Maybe it was because he was resigned to the death that Overlord brought. Maybe it was because he had not known the memorialized bot. Or maybe it was because he was just that far gone emotionally.

Whatever the reason, Prowl of Petrex felt no sorrow for the death of Pipes of Helex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is slowly turning into "prowl is a dick to literally everybody: the fanfic"  
second chapter done and posted! i'd like to thank everybody for their kudos and kind words on chapter one; it's really great that you like it so far. i promise that i'll do my best to keep the quality high (unlike the entirety of the _lost light_ comic cough cough) and deliver more fun content, including but not limited to:  
\- moody prowl  
\- goofball constructicons  
\- and slightly shitposty rodimus  
next chapter will be a bit harder to write because psychiatry.  
also i'm thinking of going back later and giving these chapters proper names instead of just "chapter (chapter number)," thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl gets his head checked.

_Case Notes- Patient 09-GFT09-BT15, Session 0001_

_When Rodimus told me yesterday that I was going to be having daily sessions with Prowl, mandated by Optimus Prime himself, naturally I was shocked. Not only because it was an order from Optimus Prime, but because the mandate was unprecedented. Throughout my entire career, both off and on the _Lost Light_, never once has a patient come in for daily sessions with me. I’ve had my fair share of frequent comers, of course, but never before daily._

_Not that I intend to shy away from a challenge. And I suspect that working with Prowl through his problems will turn out to be quite a challenge, if today was anything to go by._

_He came in late for his appointment, and my office door closed on one of his own doors, sending him into a cursing fit. I do wish that he hadn’t used such… colorful language._

_When he took a seat on my berth- facing away from me, I might add- I opened with a simple question. “How are you today?” I asked. A question that I always start every patient with; it’s unimposing, and deceptive in its profound ability to get a beginning glimpse into their psyche._

_Prowl did not respond, so I asked again. Still no response._

_A third time, and yet again no response. Not a verbal one, anyway. I had gleaned much of what I needed to know from the first minute._

_His tardiness indicates disrespect, lack of concern for procedures or commitments. His posture- faced away from me, shoulder struts tense, hands gripping the edge of the berth instead of resting on it, legs crossed- represents being closed-off, unwilling to communicate. And his expression? What I managed to glimpse of it before he turned his back to me told me that he was not having a good day._

_I sighed. “Very well, Prowl. You just answer when you feel like it.”_

_We spent the rest of the hour in complete silence. Throughout it all, Prowl kept his posture closed- he eventually lay down on the berth, but kept his arms and legs crossed. He refused to make eye contact with me. And he kept working his jaw in a strange manner. I thought I could see flecks of energon around his mouth near the end of the hour._

_When I told him our time was over for the day, he was all too happy to go. His fingers had left dents on the edge of the berth; I’ve noticed from my brief crossings with him since launch that strongly gripping things is a habit of his, for when he is… upset._

_He grips things strongly a lot of the time, from what I’ve been told. Oh dear._

_My starting observations lead me to discern that Prowl definitely has anger issues, though what they stem from, or what they are directed at, I cannot say for sure at this point. (I hear we on the _Lost Light_ might be partially to blame.) He also displays either great stubbornness, or great difficulty opening up to others to any degree, as evidenced by his constant refusal to answer my question. These will both be major problems if he is to continue living and working here._

_Fortunately, as a psychiatrist, it’s my job to help ease him out of it._

~

_Session 0002_

_Prowl was late again. If he is late to tomorrow’s session, I’ll have to bring it to his attention._

_“Welcome back,” I said as he sat back down on the berth in the same position as yesterday. Naturally, he did not reply. “Let’s pick up where we left off yesterday… how are you today?” Again, no response, although he did not seem to have as much tension in his shoulder struts as he did yesterday. Whether or not it was the result of a conscious effort, or if his shoulder struts are just tired, I cannot tell._

_We sat in silence again for the rest of the session._

~

_Session 0003_

_For a third time, Prowl was late to his session. As he lay down on the berth, I said, “Prowl, I understand that you do not want to spend time with me, but I can’t keep allowing you to come in late to your appointments. It’s extremely rude. If you’re late tomorrow, I will have to take it up with command. Okay?”_

_He grunted and crossed his arms. At least it was some sort of verbal reply._

_“So, how are you today, Prowl?” I asked once more._

_He did not tell me how he was today, but his expression was largely the same as it was during his first session. _

_We sat in silence once again for a long while. Toward the end of it, I must have been getting exasperated, because I was rather stern in my next statement. “Prowl, please answer the question. We’re not going to get anywhere if you keep sitting in silence every time you come to see me.”_

_“They just said I had to come _see_ you every day,” he said; I noticed he was talking out of the side of his mouth. “Nobody said I actually had to _talk_ to you.”_

_“You’re absolutely right. There is nothing stopping you from simply remaining quiet. But we won’t get anywhere if you remain quiet, and I certainly won’t be able to help you with whatever is making you so upset. This is a _two-way street_, Prowl; for me to help you, you need to help me. And that means cooperating. Answering my questions. Talking to me.”_

_“I’m not upset.”_

_“Your posture and expression say otherwise.”_

_“I don’t _need _help.”_

_“Optimus certainly seems to think you do.”_

_“Well, what does Optimus know?”_

_“More than you think. Prowl, he considers you a friend. He wouldn’t have instructed you to come see me if he didn’t. He wants to help you, and so do I. But I- we- can’t unless you let us.”_

_He kept working his jaw for another moment, before finally answering. “… Fine.”_

Excellent. _The first sign of cooperation, however small, and all it took was patience and a little reassurance. “Good,” I said, smiling. “I’m afraid we’re all out of time today, but let’s see if we can’t make tomorrow more productive, okay?”_

_He nodded and left. But I could definitely see flecks of energon around his mouth this time._

~

Ratchet sighed as he slid the cold chamber door closed on the bisected corpse of Ambulon.

His fellow medic, half his body jury-rigged into a gun during the showdown on Luna 1, still rested in as peaceful a position as could be managed with such grievous wounds and borderline desecration. At least what was left of his face had been rearranged out of its death scream.

The _Lost Light_’s chief medical officer didn’t know why he came back down to the ship’s morgue, why he kept coming back here- his mood was already constantly sour, and taking a look at corpses only served to curdle it more. Perhaps it was because he needed a reminder every now and again that this ship’s near-constant tomfoolery carried very real, very brutal consequences with it. That even in this supposed time of peace, life and death still hung in the balance.

A few cold chamber doors down would have been where Pipes’ body lay, if the others had not given him a quiet burial on Cybertron before their second departure. They hadn’t decided on what to do with Ambulon.

With one last gaze at where his fellow medic rested, Ratchet ascended the steps from the morgue back up to the medibay proper.

“_Hey!_ Put those down!” he scolded.

Hoist dropped the pile of small red square-shaped plates back onto the medical tray he had found them on and raised his hands in surrender. “No harm meant! I was just looking at… this stack of Autobot badges?”

“Those aren’t for you to be looking at.”

“They look… handmade or something. Not that well-crafted. Kinda shabby.”

“They _were_ handmade.” Ratchet gazed pointedly at what lay on the medical berth beside the tray that Hoist had defiled. Hoist followed his optics, and his face fell.

“Oh.”

Lying on the berth was the comatose form of Tailgate, the little bot who had played a major part in combating the threat of Tyrest’s universal killswitch, and who had, against all odds, managed to come back from the brink of death by cybercrosis. Tubes and wiring stuck out of him, pumping vital fluids in and out of him as needed; a life monitor showed that his vitals were weak, but steady, and getting stronger by the day. Some bots called his slow recovery a miracle. Ratchet called it an improbable medical turnaround.

“Little guy made them himself when he completed his Act of Affiliation,” Ratchet explained as Hoist toyed with the vials of innermost energon left on the medical tray- offerings and signs of regard for Tailgate from the other _Lost Light_ers. “He wanted to be Autobranded with his very own badge, and he wanted it to be perfect. First Aid was going to help him make one before he fell into his…” He circled his wrist strut, trying to find the right word for what First Aid was going through.

“Funk?”

“That’s it.” First Aid had, indeed, fallen into a funk. Ever since he had pulled the trigger on Pharma, the assistant medical officer had been holed up in his hab-suite, pacing about in distress and effectively being useless in his job. Hoist had ended up volunteering to temporarily fill the position.

Hoist stole another look at the pile of shabby Autobot badges. “I saw him making something else a while back, something pointy. And now he’s got these. He must be a pretty artsy-craftsy little fellow, huh? Not very good at it, but he’s got potential.”

Their discussion came to a close when somebody else came into the medibay. Ratchet’s expression darkened- it was Prowl. Hoist offered the black-and-white bot a hesitant wave, but the chief medical officer did not give any sort of greeting; he just polished an odd medical tool and made his way to the vacant medical berth that Prowl had placed his aft on.

“What’s the problem?” he grouched.

Prowl didn’t say anything.

“Come on, what’s the problem? I don’t have time for the silent treatment.”

“Cyber-cat got your tongue or something?” Hoist quipped.

Prowl merely opened his mouth to reveal that it was full of energon, seeping from a wound in his tongue that was the result of deep, repeated biting. Self-inflicted, if the angle and position of the wound was anything to go by. It did indeed look like a cyber-cat had got his tongue.

~

_Session 0004_

_Today, Prowl was… less late for his appointment. But at least he seemed to make a conscious effort to be on time. Baby steps, I suppose._

_“Hello again, Prowl,” I said. He didn’t answer, but his expression seemed a little bit softer. “Let’s try again today, shall we?” He nodded slightly. His cooperation is still reluctant, I can tell; but again, baby steps._

_“How are you today?”_

_“Fine.”_

_“Are you sure? I thought I noticed you bleeding from the mouth yesterday; what happened? Did you go to see Ratchet?”_

_“He told me to quit biting my tongue so hard.”_

_“Why would you bite your tongue so hard it bleeds?”_

_“The pain kept my focus off of you.”_

_I could tell that his statement was honest, and I will admit it was slightly hurtful. I sighed and adjusted my spectacles, choosing the phrasing of my next question carefully. “Prowl,” I asked after a small silence, “if I may, why exactly are you so… _averse_ to our meetings?”_

_“Because I don’t need help.”_

_“Don’t you?”_

_“No.”_

_“Could you tell me why you think so?”_

_“Because Optimus and your captain are wrong. I’m not_ ‘mentally unfit,’ _I’m the best I’ve ever been.”_

_“So you disagree with Optimus’ and Rodimus’ assessment of your mental capacity?”_

_“Very much.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because they’re wrong.”_

_“In what ways?”_

_He was silent._

_“Prowl, in what ways are they wrong?”_

_“They just _are_.”_

_Oh dear._

_Prowl’s responses- his disregard for authoritative opinion and his assertion that they are ‘just wrong’- indicate a certain amount of egoism. Just how much, I cannot yet tell, as it’s still too early in our sessions. But it certainly seems to be an unhealthy amount._

_“Let’s try rephrasing that. Could you elaborate on the ways you believe you are mentally fit?”_

_He was silent again. After a bit, I could hear him mumble, “No.”_

~

_Session 0005_

_“Tell me, Prowl, do you feel as strongly about other’s opinions as you feel about Optimus’ and Rodimus’ opinions of you?”_

_“I don’t feel strongly about opinions, period.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Because at the end of the day, _opinions don’t matter_. They hold no weight. Facts and evidence are what are most important, what have the most effect on everything.”_

_“I see. Would you describe yourself as a very factual bot?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“You would hold facts, evidence, logic, in a higher position than opinion, speculation, and other such things?”_

_“I just said that.”_

_“And yet, from yesterday’s session, you seem to appoint Optimus’ and Rodimus’ assessment of your mental fortitude a great amount of weight.”_

_He was silent._

_“From what you told me yesterday, and what you’ve expressed just now… would it be safe to assume that maybe, just _maybe_, you feel so strongly about the things they have to say about you because there’s some amount of truth to them?”_

_He left._

_Evidently, he does not just have an ego; he has an _easily bruised_ ego._

~

_On a completely unrelated note, one of the Constructicons wandered into my office later today, asking if I had any energon lollipops. I did, of course, but he seemed rather upset that I didn’t have any fruit punch-flavored ones._

~

_Session 0006_

_When Prowl came in today, I could tell he was still angry about yesterday’s session. I resolved to take it a bit easier, so as not to have a repeat walk-out. “Let’s change directions a bit; we won’t focus on your… immediate situation for a while. Would you feel comfortable telling me about your formative years?”_

_He squirmed. Evidently, he was not comfortable with talking about his formative years. And yet, he still talked about them, maybe because they did not pertain to his immediate situation._

_“I was constructed cold in Petrex,” he told me. “Petrex was a functionist town, understand? A very _hardline_ functionist town- any overheard negative comments about your alt mode would get you in prison.” He paused for a bit. “Are you aware of the feelings functionists have toward constructed cold bots?"_

_“I believe so.”_

_“They think that cold construction is an affront to Adaptus. Blasphemy or something. I don’t know, and I don’t care. The point is, my cold construction was done as a _protest_.”_

_“A protest?”_

_“There was this small group of engineers in town who had gotten their hand on a stock of stray, possibly stolen photonic crystals with spark energy in them, and they started mass-producing bots with them. They told me, when I first came to, that they were building us and slowly releasing us into the world to prove that constructed cold bots had value, too, not just the forged ones.” He sighed._

_“The protest didn’t work, of course. Because we were mass-produced, we all looked exactly the same. The heads of Petrex cottoned on to what was happening- the odds of newly-developed forged bots all looking so _uncannily similar_ was astronomically low- and they cracked down on the operation before it could proceed further. We were spared, fortunately, but ever after, we were treated as second-class. _Worse _than second-class. I got in trouble with the functionists more times than I’d like to admit, mostly just because I was ‘_born wrong_.’”_

_“Are there any specific instances that you would like to share?”_

_“No.”_

_“Alright. Do you feel that your formative years had any sort of lasting impact on you as a person?”_

_“They certainly helped me develop my two main philosophies in life.”_

_“And what would they be?”_

_“One- no matter your origin, _rules and discipline_ will get you far in life. And two- a _self-serving_ authority must be confronted eventually; the purpose of authority is to promote and enforce the good of those under it.”_

_“I see. And you’ve carried these philosophies of yours throughout all your life?”_

_“Absolutely.”_

_Prowl’s philosophies lend a great deal of insight into his current attitude toward both Optimus and Rodimus. It would seem that his clashes with both of them stem from his disdain for Rodimus’ rather reckless method of leadership, and his possible doubt that Optimus’ actions have not been in the interest of those under him._

_No offense to Optimus if he reads these, of course- these are Prowl’s potential feelings, not my definite ones._

~

Down Under. Men At Work. 1981.

The beat kicked in almost right away, consuming every movement of Bluestreak’s frame. He didn’t just walk down the corridor; he stepped in time to the rhythm. His hip struts shook in time with every riff, his hands followed every trill, and when the chorus dropped, he slid on the wheels in his heels a good distance before returning to his regular dancing.

Bluestreak loved old Earth music, almost as much as he loved old Earth movies. Why hadn’t Cybertron ever been able to produce anything quite as varied and fun to listen to as Earth?

Oh, right. The whole four-million-year-long war thing.

The chorus came back, and Bluestreak’s focus went back to dancing down the corridor, to the sound of the song that he had tuned so that it played in his audials alone. It was one of his favorites. He shuttered his optics and smiled as he did a funky sort of pirouette, ending it facing the way he had just come from.

When he unshuttered them again, the supposedly abandoned corridor wasn’t so abandoned.

Three awfully familiar, vaguely menacing green-and-purple bots stood in the corridor, taking up most of the space and forming an effective barricade. One of them- the small one with a scooper arm on his back- was sucking on an energon lollipop (blue raspberry flavor, if the glow was anything to go by).

“_Yike!_” Bluestreak exclaimed, jumping in surprise and automatically switching off the music in his head.

To his surprise, the three vaguely menacing bots didn’t do anything to actually menace him. They actually started _applauding._

“Do that again!” the one with the energon lollipop cheered.

“How long have you been standing there?” Bluestreak asked nervously.

“We’ve been following you for a solid minute,” answered the tallest of the three. “We _were_ going down to Swerve’s for a late-night drink…”

“But now we’re much more interested in watching you do… _that_, than having a drink!” the one with wheels on his upper arms finished.

“Can you teach me?” the small one asked eagerly.

Bluestreak had been going to Swerve’s himself, for a drink and a chat with his best friend Hoist. But the prospect of having to share both with these three and their ilk put him off of that desire. He knew who these three bots were. He did not like them at all. And he was, quite frankly, appalled that they had been allowed on board.

“Uh… no. No, I, uh… I can’t. That’s not really something I can teach,” Bluestreak stammered, much to the small bot’s disappointment. With the three completely blocking his way back to his hab-suite, he had no choice but to keep on going down the corridor, past Swerve’s, and on to a completely random part of the _Lost Light_.

A completely random, very _dark_ part of the _Lost Light_.

He was about to put on another song and begin looping back around to his hab-suite, but before he could…

“Hey, Bluestreak. Got a minute?”

~

It was very late, and very quiet, as it usually was on the cusp of a new day.

Prowl sat on his recharge slab, thinking about his past week on the _Lost Light_, and about his session with Rung earlier that day. The ship’s psychiatrist didn’t seem like a bad sort, per se- he was certainly one of the sanest bots on this ship- but the black-and-white bot didn’t appreciate the intrusive questions he had been asking as of late. He didn’t know why he had been so open about his formative years during their session today; in his opinion, those didn’t matter.

_Nothing_ about what Rung kept asking him actually mattered.

His frame had been tingling oddly for a little while; he chalked that up to being tired. Being angry all the time was a bit of a chore.

He was about to lay down fully on his recharge slab and shut down, when a pounding sounded on his hab-suite door. Terrific. “Go away,” he shouted in its general direction.

“Prowl?” came a voice amidst the pounding. “Prowl, open up!”

“No.”

“Please, Prowl! It’s really important!”

“Frag off.”

“We’re going to keep banging on your door if you don’t open up!”

_We…?_

Prowl opened the door to find Long Haul and Hook standing there, in rather poor exterior condition and with very concerned expressions on their faces. They stank of cheap liquor, and vaguely like blue raspberry. Immediately, his expression darkened. “You’d better have a good reason for showing up at _my_ door at _this_ hour, because Primus help me-”

“It’s an emergency!” cried Hook. And he thrust something forward at Prowl.

He didn’t know how he still recognized it, after all the distance he had tried to put between himself and the Constructicons during this voyage.

But he recognized it.

In Hook’s outstretched hands sat the severed left arm of Scavenger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (_law and order_ sound effect) DUN-DUN!  
this chapter was a little bit tricky to write, because there was a very specific way i wanted to go about depicting prowl's sessions with rung, and also because i'm pretty unfamiliar with psychiatric practices/evaluations in the first place. i think that the final product is pretty satisfactory; i'm especially happy with my decision to format each session in the style of rung's case notes.  
also, i think it'd be disingenuous of me to draw on james roberts' work and not go full james roberts by including a soundtrack. i don't listen to nearly as much indie music as he does, and i'll be sticking mostly to just giving characters theme songs, so keep that in mind:
> 
> overall series theme- [Astronaut](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exG595LaWxc) (this one fits nicely with the themes of loneliness i want to explore within the story)  
prowl's theme- [Boulevard of Broken Dreams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gYCTXzOTnXg) (edgy, moody, lonely fucker gets an edgy, moody song about being alone)  
the constructicons' theme- [Working for the Weekend](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ys0eo9kcQ70) (a fun power ballad that's lowkey about working to earn others' acceptance? perfect for these boys)  
bluestreak's theme- [Come and Get Your Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bc0KhhjJP98) (bluestreak is the chris pratt star lord of this ship and you can't change my mind)
> 
> up next: it's mystery time, boys and lady boys!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl starts solving a mystery to get the Constructicons off his back.

“Why in the Pit am I supposed to care about some arm?” Prowl asked, his arms crossed.

“Because it’s _Scavenger’s_ arm!” cried Hook. “The fact that it’s not attached to him means that something bad happened to him! You gotta help us find him!”

Prowl’s scowl deepened. “No! I’m not going to help you!”

“Please?”

“Why are you coming to _me_ about this?”

“You were a cop! You gotta be good at investigations!” He knew that the only reason Hook knew that was because of the forced mental link they had shared when combined; evidently some of his memories had bled over into Hook’s brain module. “And you’re the only bot we really trust around here! Come on, please?” the green bot pleaded.

“_No_. Now get away from my hab-suite.”

Two more bots suddenly crashed onto the scene- Bonecrusher and Mixmaster, clearly freshly disturbed from their own recharge. Their approaching ruckus prompted Crosshairs, the bot in the hab-suite at the corridor intersection, to poke his head out his door and throw a cross look their way. “Guys!” Bonecrusher shouted. “You feel it too, right?”

“Yeah!” said Long Haul.

“Feel what…?” asked Prowl.

“The tingling!” Mixmaster explained. “One of the byproducts of the gestalt bond is the physical alert it gives to its components when one of them is in poor condition!” He and Bonecrusher came to a loud halt, practically falling over themselves in worry at the sight of their companion’s severed arm.

Huh. So it wasn’t tiredness after all.

But the idea of there being a physical bond as well as a mental bond between gestalt components further soured Prowl; he didn’t want to be bonded in any sort of way to the Constructicons. Yet no matter how much he yelled at them, or demanded that they not be allowed aboard the _Lost Light_, something always seemed to come up and keep them in his proximity.

Hook turned back to Prowl, still clearly concerned. “The bond’s only tingling, which means that Scavenger’s alive! He’s hurt, but he’s alive! Come on, Prowl, we don’t want him to die; we could barely handle the ache Scrapper’s death left us! Please help us find him!”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?!”

“Haven’t I made it clear enough? I don’t want to help you, I don’t want to be bonded to you, I don’t want _anything to do with you! I want you lot to take your stupid missing bot mystery and **get out of my life!**_” This comment clearly hurt the Constructicons, and Prowl took a sort of sick pleasure from that fact.

Then Long Haul piped up, “If… if you help us find Scavenger, we’ll leave you alone.”

…

“Promise?”

“Did I hear the words ‘help,’ ‘find,’ and ‘mystery?’” a new voice asked, before any of the Constructicons could reply. (None of them could see it, but Crosshairs was banging his head against the wall in frustration at all the fresh noise.) As a unit, the impromptu assembly turned their heads to observe an unfamiliar blue-and-yellow bot with a scar on his forehead easing his way around the corner and down to the end of the corridor where they were all gathered. “Those are my three favorite words ever. Of all time.”

“I’m sorry, _who_ are you?” snipped Prowl.

“Nightbeat,” answered the new bot. “And I’m here to help.”

“How did you hear us from all the way over there?” asked Mixmaster. “Or from wherever you were?”

Nightbeat’s cheeky grin snapped immediately to a blank, straight face. “I have audials everywhere. _Everywhere._” Standing stock still as he was, not taking his visor off of them, he began to give off a sort of unsettling vibe, enough to make Hook and Bonecrusher wince with discomfort. He stayed in this position for twenty whole seconds before returning to a state of normal function. “And my audials detected that you all are thinking about solving a mystery regarding a missing bot. Mysteries are kind of my deal. I want in.”

“No,” Prowl said flatly. “I don’t need _five_ bots following me around on this cyber-goose chase.”

“You’re saying no an awful lot tonight,” remarked Long Haul.

“It’s my favorite word.”

Nightbeat brought his palms together in a pleading gesture (Primus, Prowl was getting tired of bots pleading with him). “Come on! Surely a distinguished ex-mechaforensics bot like you would appreciate having a fellow legitimate investigator tag along on your… investigation.”

Prowl was confused. “How…”

“Did I know you were ex-mechaforensics?” Nightbeat said, effectively asking Prowl’s question for him. He then proceeded to answer said question. “Simple- you were one of the bots who investigated the body me and Quark found way back during the Clampdown. Primus, but that was a while ago, wasn’t it? The fact that you’re here now, instead of back in Iacon at the I.M.D, is a clear sign that you’re not in that line of work anymore.”

Yes, the Senator Sherma investigation had indeed been a while ago. Prowl scowled some more. “An old recollection and a simple observation aren’t enough to convince me to let you work with me.”

“Then how about I observe something more _complex?_ Here, give me that arm.” He pointed at Scavenger’s arm, which Hook handed over in confusion.

Prowl watched with small interest as Nightbeat turned the arm over in his hands, observing it up close, at arm’s length, and from every conceivable angle. Truth be told, he was hoping that the blue-and-yellow bot’s claim to be a legitimate investigator wasn’t just a claim. If it was, then he’d dismiss working with him for good. But if not… if he _could_ deduce something useful…

“This arm was torn off.”

The black-and-white bot rolled his optics. “Thanks for the observation, Captain Obvious. Give it back.”

“Wait, wait! Hear me out on this.” And Nightbeat proceeded to launch into a spiel.

“See these fracture marks here in the shoulder joint and in the plating around it? There would be no fractures at all if the arm was removed with a blade or surgical tool. And the size of them and lack of fading radiation around them negates the possibility that it was shot off with a blaster. No, this was a removal of pure force; the arm was _pulled_ off of the body. Or rather, the _body_ was pulled off of the _arm_. Notice these dents and stress marks here- they go from the middle of the bicep strut all the way down to the end of the forearm. They indicate that the arm was held under some kind of great weight, a weight that our culprit clearly had no desire to try and remove. So they tugged at… Scavenger, was it? They tugged at Scavenger’s body and left the arm under whatever was pinning it down.”

“What was pinning it down?” Prowl asked, his curiosity now fully piqued.

“Those two, of course,” said Nightbeat confidently, pointing at Hook and Long Haul. “The depth of the denting could only have been caused by a weight equal to the combined weight of the large one and one of the others, but the shape of these dents here close to the wrist strut line up exactly with the shape of that one’s hip plating.”

“Impressive!” exclaimed Mixmaster.

Prowl nodded quietly. Looking closely at the severed arm, he too could see every detail that had been pointed out. Nightbeat’s observational skills were clearly refined, definitely mechaforensics caliber. Had the two worked in the I.M.D together during the Clampdown, he suspected that he might have enjoyed the experience.

“Alright, I’m convinced,” he said, much to Nightbeat’s clear enthusiasm. “_But_… you left a piece out.” He pointed to the slack fingers, the knuckles of which were covered in a distinct dark purple residue.

“What’s that?” asked Nightbeat.

“_That_ is what gets left behind when you spill Valium all over your hand. The preferred rotgut of every miner, construction worker, and manual laborer. And these two-” he jerked a thumb at Hook and Long Haul- “_reek_ of it.

“Come with me, gentlemen… we’re going for a drink.”

~

Back in their boiler room, Bonecrusher paced restlessly up and down the floor, while Mixmaster buried his faceplate in a rather thick datapad.

“It’s not fair!” complained Bonecrusher for what seemed like the 113th time. “Scavenger’s _our_ brother too! We should be out there helping look for him! I don’t get why _we_ have to stay back here and do nothing while Long Haul and Hook get to go out and have themselves a mystery!”

Mixmaster rolled his optics. “For the last time, Long Haul and Hook were directly involved in what happened. We weren’t.”

Bonecrusher sighed. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it, I don’t like it, I don’t like it. They know how restless I get, especially when one of us is in trouble! I couldn’t handle the ache, I can’t handle this tingling, and I hate the fact that they aren’t letting me do anything to fix it! I should be out there finding my little bro and pummeling the guy what hurt him! But I’m not! And it just gets me so… _argh!_” He drew back a fist and was just about to punch a hole in the boiler, but was stopped by Mixmaster grabbing his arm.

“Don’t punch that, slag-head,” the mixing truck said, redirecting the bulldozer’s aim toward a perfectly safe wall. “Punch that instead.”

Bonecrusher did.

The crater his fist made was fairly impressive.

He sighed again. “I’m sorry. I just… I really wanna help.”

“I know you do. Just calm down; everything’s going to be okay. They’re gonna find Scavenger real soon, I just know it. And in the event he wanders back here, you and I’ll be the friendly faces he’ll need to see.”

“Okay.” There was a companionable silence between the two. Then Bonecrusher pointed to the thick datapad. “What’cha reading?”

Mixmaster held it up for him to see. “The copy of the Autobot Code Magnus gave us a few days ago. Don’t ask me how I know, but tomorrow there’s going to be a surprise test on Sections 1 through 13… even though we haven’t covered anything past Section 7 in our classes yet. Wanna study with me?”

“Sure.”

~

“This is officially the _last_ time I let those three Valium-chuggers have late-night drinks.”

Prowl, Nightbeat, Long Haul, and Hook were all gathered in Swerve’s bar, listening to the red medibot complain at the mess that the three Constructions had left in their escapade. Bottles were tipped over, Valium residue coated the bar counter and colored the floor, three barstools were broken off of their stems, and there was a streaking puddle of energon that pointed toward the bar door. Swerve had wanted to clean up the mess, but this was a crime scene- Prowl had forbidden any tampering with the evidence.

“What happened in here?” Nightbeat asked, to nobody in particular.

“Isn’t it obvious?” cried Swerve. “I let those Constructicons come in for a late-night drink, let them help themselves to my stock of Valium, and when I come back from prepping the stock for the morning, I find that they’ve made a mess and are drunkenly scrambling around shouting that one of them’s gone missing! It looks like a crime scene in here!”

“That’s because it is.” Prowl sighed. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this, but step back and give me a minute. Let me read the room.”

The other bots followed his instruction (Nightbeat wandered off to investigate the rest of the bar), leaving Prowl to pinch his chin as his optics ran over every little detail of the crime scene for several moments. He ignored Swerve’s impatient complaint.

The empty bottles and the Valium residue on the counter and the arm’s fingers told him that the drinks had flowed enthusiastically, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. The sheen of the drink residue indicated that it had been sitting out undisturbed for about an hour and a half at most. From the angle of the tears in the barstool stems, they were broken due to a sudden and heavy application of pressure at the rear edge of the seat… pressure that was the result of three drunken Constructicons leaning back on their stools too far. And the size and shape of the energon puddle indicated that Scavenger’s now-armless body had been dragged along the floor toward the door; if he had walked away, there would be smaller, less frequent drips. The point at which the puddle ended suggested that the internal fuel conduits had clamped shut about halfway to the door, to avoid the loss of all of Scavenger’s energon.

He relayed all of this information to the others, who made sounds of being impressed.

“Is this little flask over here relevant?” called Nightbeat from the corner of the bar.

“No.”

“You know, Prowl,” said Long Haul, swaying where he stood, “for all this information you’ve been gathering about what happened, you haven’t actually properly asked any witnesses anything.”

Swerve seemed to clam up at that suggestion. “Oh Adaptus, don’t tell me you’re suggesting that Prowl perform one of his _interrogations_. I’ve heard rumors about them, about how they’re supposed to be more intensive and more loaded than the Aequitas trials themselves.”

“But maybe that’d help us find out what happened to Scavenger?” suggested Long Haul.

“No,” said Prowl flatly as Nightbeat made his way back to the group. “I don’t trust any of you ‘witnesses’ to give me any useful information. Swerve would just blabber on incessantly, and you and Hook are clearly still inebriated. Your panic at waking up might have jolted your systems to something resembling functional capacity, but as you are now, it’s clear that almost all your internal functions have prioritized helping your F.I.M chips process all that Valium you drank over helping your brain modules work at full mental capacity. You wouldn’t be able to tell me anything coherent.”

Hook made a surprised face. “Whaaaaat? Us, inebriated? No, no, we’re _fiiiiine!_ I’m fine!” And then he became suddenly fascinated with his fingers.

“So if you’re not going to interrogate anybody, what are you going to do?” asked Swerve.

“Simple,” Prowl said. “I’m going to access the ship’s security camera recordings to find out exactly what happened.”

~

“Sorry, Prowl, I can’t give you access to any security recordings.”

The group, sans Swerve and Hook, had ventured to the _Lost Light_’s Security Division headquarters, only to be greeted by Groove’s head poking out from the cracked-open door. Prowl could see the tantalizing glow of viewscreens behind him.

“And why not?” the black-and-white bot asked, hands on hip struts.

Groove merely poked a hand out and pointed to a sign on the doorframe that read, “_Prowl, stay out! –-Love, Rodimus_”

Prowl’s scowl deepened even more (Long Haul wondered how that was physically possible, and if his face would eventually cave into itself). If this was the level of effort the ship’s captain put forth in enforcing his rules, then… well, he didn’t know what then, but he knew that he was absolutely appalled with Rodimus’ laxness. “That sign can’t stop me. Let me see the recordings from Swerve’s an hour and a half ago.”

“But I can. No.”

“Groove, I swear to Primus,” Prowl grumbled under his breath, reaching out to pry the door open wider and force his way into Security Division headquarters. Groove slid the door shut, and from the resistance to Prowl pulling on it, he locked it. “Let me in!” he shouted, ramming into and pounding on the door with his body.

“If you persist, I’m going to charge you with attempted breach of security and have you punished accordingly,” came a new voice.

It was _Megatron_.

The new _Lost Light_ co-captain towered menacingly over the group, arms crossed. His bucket-shaped helmet seemed to brush the corridor’s ceiling. Long Haul and Nightbeat cowered in his shadow. Reluctantly, Prowl stopped his assault on the door, but he could feel his famous death glare resurface.

“What in the universe do you think you’re doing?” Megatron asked.

“I need access to some recent security recordings,” said Prowl. “There’s a Constructicon missing, and those recordings will help me figure out what happened to him.”

“Trying to access security recordings.”

“Yes.”

“In direct opposition to what Rodimus informed me he and Optimus ordered you to do.”

“Yes.”

“Which was to _not_ try to access security recordings.”

“Yes.”

“I should charge you not just with attempted breach of security, but with _gross insubordination_ as well.”

“Do it.”

In response, Megatron grabbed Prowl by his chestplate, hefted him up with one arm, and _slammed him against the wall, right on the corner of the door recess_. Prowl let out an involuntary vent and a cry of pain; he was vaguely aware of the other two bots suddenly retreating in fear. When he unshuttered his optics, he was treated to a closer look at Megatron’s face than he ever wanted. Red optics met blue in a blaze of fury, inches away from each other, seemingly on the verge of sparking an actual fire.

“I’m not going to,” Megatron said in a low rumble. “I’m going to leave you with a dent in your back instead, and with a warning- if I ever see you- _any of you_\- near Security Division headquarters again, for whatever reason, I _will_ throw you against another wall, and into the brig right after. Right then… _right there_.”

“And how would Optimus react seeing you manhandle one of his own?” Prowl growled back.

The co-captain dropped Prowl hard, took a moment to glare significantly at the two Constructicons and their poorly painted-over Decepticon insignias, and spat, “Good luck finding your missing Constructicon.” Then he left.

Prowl remained slumped against the wall for several moments. His head, back plating, and spinal strut ached mightily, and the tingling in his frame had grown stronger. He was extremely angry. Megatron had laid hands on him. Megatron had violently laid hands on him and threatened him. The very bot that Optimus thought was capable of showing mercy. The very bot that Optimus thought could _change_. Optimus was blind. This was not mercy. Megatron could not show mercy. Megatron could not change.

“I’m going back to Swerve’s,” piped up Nightbeat. “Getting yelled at by Megatron is _not_ the sort of excitement I was hoping for in this case.” And he ventured off.

“… Prowl? Are you okay?” asked Long Haul hesitantly.

Prowl struggled to his feet. “No, I am _not_ okay. My back hurts, and now I have no access to the footage I need to get this thrice-cursed missing bot mystery over with.”

“If it’s footage you want, lemme mentally interface with you; I can replay my memories of the experience for you. That should be better than nothing.”

“Absolutely not. You know exactly how I feel about our minds touching again.”

Long Haul looked sheepishly down at his feet. “I was just trying to be helpful,” he muttered, “but _nooooo_, Long Haul, that’s a terrible idea.”

Prowl pinched his chin. Long Haul’s idea, stupid as it was, had set the cogs in his brain module turning. He couldn’t trust the Constructicons to adequately transfer their memories and experiences from their brain modules to their mouths, and he _certainly _didn’t trust any sort of mental link memory transfer to go smoothly with them in their still-wasted state… but he knew someone else on the _Lost Light_ who could mentally interface with them in a different way.

What he planned to do also went directly against Rodimus’ orders. But he didn’t care.

He was going to take Long Haul with him.

And he was going to talk to Chromedome.

~

Bonecrusher was never really one for reading, but he had to admit, it was pretty neat. Sure, a lot of it was a jumble of letters and words that he didn’t even begin to know the meanings of, but getting the definitions from Mixmaster and tucking them away for future use helped ease his nerves and distract him from the thought of Scavenger…

At least, until he got to Section 2, Subsection 27, Paragraph 2.

“Uh-oh, Boney. You’re tensing up again. What’s wrong?” asked Mixmaster, looking up from his game of solitaire.

Bonecrusher tried to take deep vents and steady his hands. The tingling in his frame worsened. “You know what Section 2, Subsection 27, Paragraph 2 of this Autobot Code entails?” he asked. “‘_Autobot Ethics- In all scenarios, an Autobot must never willfully leave a fellow Autobot behind. All efforts must be taken to ensure the safe transit and assured wellbeing of fellow Autobots._’ Never leave a bot behind, Mix. That’s what being an Autobot is about; that’s what we gotta do if we want even the slightest chance of getting on this ship’s good side.”

“Boney…”

“It’s got me thinking about Scavenger again. The tingling’s gotten worse, man; I’m getting scared. What if he’s hurt for good? What if he’s _lost _for good? It’ll be just like Scrapper again, and I don’t think I can handle that again, man!”

“Boney, _calm down-!_”

In distress, Bonecrusher hurled the thick datapad at the door of the boiler room… just as a tall blue cyclops walked through it.

The datapad hit him in the head.

“Oh Primus, I’m so sorry!” winced Bonecrusher. “I didn’t mean to hit you!”

There was a tense silence. Nobody dared to make a move.

Then the blue cyclops released the can of spraypaint from his claws, waggled the wings on his shoulders, and turned his sole yellow optic toward Bonecrusher. His complete lack of a face was, to put it mildly, quite frightening; the bulldozer had no idea what the newcomer was feeling.

Soon, he did. The blue cyclops narrowed his optic and said a single word, in a voice quivering with rage-

“**_Run_.**”

~

Through the door, against which he had leaned in order to keep it blockaded (though it was a sliding door, and thus had no need to be blockaded in that manner), Groove had heard the whole situation. So had his nighttime security buddies Streetwise and Strafe, hunched over the single cramped desk and their eighteenth game of three-man chess. They looked worried.

“D-d-did they say someone was m-m-missing?” stuttered Strafe. “M-m-missing bots are pretty serious. We should h-h-help look for them!” He tipped over his king, effectively tapping out of the game, and relocated himself to the swivel chair in front of the wall of viewscreens, all of which displayed real-time footage from the _Lost Light_’s security cameras.

“They said a _Constructicon_ was missing,” Streetwise said. “I don’t wanna help Prowl look for no Constructicon. I don’t wanna look for no Constructicon, _period!_” He wanted to finish the game; he was so close to checkmating Groove.

Groove put his hands on his hip struts. “Who said anything about helping Prowl? Look, I know how you feel about the Constructicons, Streetwise; believe me, I’m right there with you. But Strafe’s right- missing bots are a matter of security, and security’s our job. We’ll find this missing bot all on our own, and we’ll rub it in Prowl’s face later.” He turned to Strafe. “Go ahead and pull up those recordings he was talking about.”

Strafe made to access the files in question… then frowned.

“Th-th-that’s odd…” he murmured. “According to this, the c-c-cameras in Swerve’s… w-w-weren’t online an hour and a h-h-half ago. They recorded three Constructicons e-e-enter earlier, have several drinks, m-m-make a mess… and then the footage cut o-o-out. A-a-and then it resumed about t-t-ten minutes later. And it’s n-n-not just Swerve’s… _all_ the cameras in th-th-the middle deck stopped r-r-recording around the same time.” He felt the energon drain out of his face.

“We g-g-gotta investigate the cameras.”

~

It was dark.

Not just the nighttime kind of dark, or the space kind of dark, but the kind of dark that only came when your optics were shut off.

Oh. His optics _were_ shut off.

His head hurt, too. And there was an awful taste lingering in his mouth. Valium and blue raspberry _really_ did not go together.

His frame tingled…

Why did his entire left arm feel… lighter?

His optics finally came back on, and the dark transitioned to the dark of nighttime in an unlit room.

_Oh._

_That was why._

Scavenger awoke in an unfamiliar room with a massive hangover and a missing arm. His cracked visor gave him a heads-up readout of everything that was going wrong with his internals- he was low on energon, his internal fuel conduits in his entire left side had been closed off for nearly an hour and a half, and his F.I.M chip was working overtime in processing all the Valium he had drunk at Swerve’s. That last part was normal. The Constructicons all had powerful F.I.M chips to help them process their liquor quickly; his hangover shouldn’t last much longer. Why did he always try to keep up with Long Haul? He was tiny. Long Haul was huge.

The small Constructicon groaned weakly and tried to sit up.

“You’re awake,” said a voice. “In terrible shape, but awake. Good.”

“Who’s there…?”

“Someone you know.” An energon cube slid across the floor to rest at his legs. “Eat this. You lost quite a bit of energon.”

“How long have I been out?”

“About an hour and a half.”

“What happened to my arm?”

“It came off.”

“No… rrgh… no slag.” Scavenger flailed for the energon cube.

“Do you know why I’ve brought you here?”

“No. But I don’t _want_ to be here. I want to go back.”

“Back where? Back to Swerve’s? Back to your boiler room? Back to standing in front of your precious Prowl’s hab-suite, hoping for him to notice you? You don’t belong in any of those places. You don’t belong _here_, on this ship. It ill becomes you, Scavenger.”

“How… how do you know my name?”

“I told you, you know me.”

“Let me go back.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“_No_. Not yet. Not until I’m done with you. Then we will all be able to go back.”

“What are you talking about? What do you want from me?”

“I want to make you an offer. I want to present you and your Constructicon brothers with a _choice_. Make the right one, and I can promise you will come to no more harm.”

“Why… why aren’t the others here with me?”

“You were the only one I could drag into this room. The rest of you are too heavy for someone of my stature.”

“I want to make the choice with them.”

“_You_ will make your choice here and now. You will all choose separately, and I will act accordingly.”

“No! We’re a team! We do everything together, and that includes making important choices!”

“A team, are you? Whatever happened to being part of the larger team? Whatever happened to ‘Decepticons stick together?’ Where’s that loyalty to what matters most? You’ve lost your way. Too many of us have lately, and it hurts me. It hurts more than me.”

From the sound of it, the speaker was a Decepticon himself. “Lost our… rrgh… way? What are you talking about? We haven’t lost our way!” Scavenger protested.

“We shall see. We shall see…”

“Stop talking so…” Scavenger struggled for the word. “… so _cryptically!_ Show yourself and tell me what you want!”

“If you insist.” A single light in the room came on, and the unknown speaker revealed himself. He was right- Scavenger _did_ know him. One fresh emotion was strong enough to shove its way through the smog in his brain module.

“_You…?!_” he asked, in as much shock as his poor state could muster.

“Me,” said Ravage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to break open a new word file for this.  
enter nightbeat, and enter some mystery shenanigans! writing nightbeat's and prowl's little "sherlock scan" moments was an absolute treat; i really enjoyed tossing in all sorts of little details throughout. and little details are the name of the game here. keep your eyes peeled- some of these little details will go on to have some big payoff...  
the b-plot involving bonecrusher was slightly more challenging to write. i wanted to have a relevant b-plot for this chapter, in grand _mtmte_ tradition, but i already had a lot of new faces thrown in and i didn't want to go introducing too many more. i feel satisfied with what i eventually came up with, though; it gave me a good opportunity to start fleshing out another one of the boys.  
next chapter: closure


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl and the gang find out some new things, and Scavenger has to make a choice.

“Swerve, tell me something,” Nightbeat said, slumping over a clean portion of the bar counter. “Tell me something about… something about Valium.”

Swerve cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? Since when did you become a liquor enthusiast?”

“I can try to have interests outside of mysteries, you know. Plus, it’s relevant.”

“Ooh, ooh! Let _me_ tell him! I’m a liquor enthusiast! I know all about this stuff!” piped up Hook, from the floor he had been laying on. “Valium’s this very special, very potent sort of engex; they say it’s bioengineered to stay _just_ on the cusp of expiration for maximum flavor. Me and the other Constructicons would go down for a dram or nine of Valium after each build job, before the war.” He sighed contentedly. “Good stuff.”

“Cheap, too,” added Swerve, polishing the bits of the counter that Prowl had not ordered off-limits. “Used to be, fifteen shanix would get you a whole case of the stuff, hence why it was so popular with the manual class. No bartender worth their salt would ever sell it in higher establishments, but…” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Fortunately for the Constructicons, I’m no bartender worth my salt.”

“Where’d you get it?” asked Nightbeat, curious.

“Three days after takeoff, Brainstorm sent me ten whole cases for the bar. Ten whole cases that are now three because _you guys drank it all tonight,_” he barbed, directing the last bit at Hook. “Said it was a gift for more bots than just me.”

“He must have heard us complain about you not having any,” said Hook. “Brainstorm seems nice, if he’d do something like that.”

“Yeah… nice…” Where did _Brainstorm_ get the Valium, Nightbeat wondered?

~

Hab-suite 208.

Prowl could hear some sort of audio playing from inside; it sounded like some poorly-spliced videos played in rapid succession. Was this what Chromedome did with his spare time here now? Shame.

He didn’t want to see Chromedome. Not after his forced memory removal before the _Lost Light_’s launch, not after the Devastator incident, not after the failure of the Overlord operation, and _certainly_ not after being thrown off a cliff during the Shockwave calamity. But he had to. Chromedome’s abilities were possibly the last option he had in seeking information about Scavenger’s disappearance. The sooner he had that, the sooner he could figure out exactly what happened and the sooner he could get the Constructicons off his back.

He pounded on the door.

Then he stood back and waited, Long Haul behind him.

The door slid open.

And he couldn’t help but wince.

Chromedome looked, in a word, _awful_. His yellow visor flickered with fatigue, and the plating around it was a worrying shade of gray. His body plating had clearly not been washed or polished in a while. His shoulder struts slumped; the stacks atop them seemed smaller than usual. And his left fingertips, where he kept his mnemosurgery needles, were dripping energon from unhealed wounds. Prowl was almost inclined to feel sorry for the state his former partner was in… if he wasn’t so lubricated off.

For several moments the two bots stared at each other in silence.

“I need your help,” said Prowl.

Chromedome slammed the door shut.

Prowl made to knock on the door again, but it slid open before he could. Chromedome leaned out of it, brandishing a small blaster; from the sound it was making, it was charging up a shot. A shot aimed at Prowl. Long Haul made a sound of distress and stumbled backward, but Prowl put his police training to use.

Quickly, he grabbed Chromedome’s left wrist strut- the one holding the blaster- with his right hand and wrenched it down away from his head, and planted his own left hand on Chromedome’s neck strut. With that hand, he pushed firmly, and with his other, he twisted the captive arm, causing the mnemosurgeon to reflexively open his bleeding hand and drop the blaster. It clattered harmlessly to the floor.

Chromedome’s right hand came up to grab Prowl’s left bicep strut and tug at it, trying to get his entire arm away from his neck. For several moments, the two bots grappled with each other.

“_Get the frag away from my hab-suite,_” Chromedome snarled.

In response, Prowl put on a burst of strength and shoved Chromedome to the floor by his neck. He took in a few vents, slightly worn out from the effort. He had not had to use that particular piece of training in quite some time, but he was gladdened that he had achieved the same results with Chromedome as he had with other armed criminals back in Iacon.

He leaned in close. “Now why’d you have to go and pull a blaster, Chromedome?”

“Because I _really_ don’t want to see you.”

“Could’ve just said that. I really don’t want to see you either, but I have to, because I need your help.”

“I’m not gonna let you bully me into another one of your schemes.”

Prowl dutifully ignored the protestation. “I need you to interface with Long Haul over there.” He jerked his head toward the tall green bot, who was still standing to the side uneasily.

“Still not going anywhere without at least one of your posse?” growled the mnemosurgeon.

Prowl thumped Chromedome’s head against the floor, his visage darkening. “They’re not my ‘posse.’ Don’t you _ever_ call them that again.” He paused before resuming his previous statement. “And I need you to extract a few fresh memories from him. Hopefully, what you find in there can help me figure out what happened to our recently-disappeared Scavenger.”

“Why don’t you use your precious gestalt bond to see what your missing child is seeing?”

“The bond doesn’t work that way unless we’re combined.” Thank Primus it didn’t- if they could all tap into one another’s brain modules to share sight at any time, then he’d never get any recharge. “Will you do it?”

“I’m not doing it,” said Chromedome. “I’m done injecting for you. I’m done injecting for _anyone_. I left that life behind after…” He trailed off, but Prowl knew what he had been about to say- after Rewind died.

“He made you promise to swear off it, didn’t he?” asked Prowl.

Chromedome was silent. Prowl knew he was right.

The black-and-white bot scoffed. “Fine. You can stay with your _fingers bleeding_ in memory of your dead little data slug. Primus knows he’s all you’d ever do anything for anyway.”

The mnemosurgeon kneed him hard in the midsection, forcing his grip to relax and his body to fall backward. It knocked the wind out of him; he had to take in several much deeper vents. Chromedome struggled to his feet, also venting heavily, and stumbled back into his hab-suite. The door slid closed on an angry yellow glare.

Prowl kneeled where he was for a few moments. Then he pounded his fist on the floor, close to where Chromedome’s blaster lay abandoned, and shouted a curse word in Old Cybertronian. Why was everyone making this so difficult for him? All he needed was their cooperation for a few minutes, and that was it. Then he’d be done with them until he needed them next. He had always been able to get others’ cooperation in the past. Why wasn’t he getting it now?

“Oh, for the love of-” he heard Long Haul say, before he felt himself being picked up by one of his doors.

Before he could protest, Long Haul placed his forehead against Prowl’s chevron.

There was a flash of white light.

_And Prowl saw._

~

Long Haul, Hook, and Scavenger finally managed to shove themselves through the door to Swerve’s all at once. The sound attracted the gazes of the scattered late-night drinkers around the bar, and the gaze of Swerve himself, previously locked in an apparently humorous conversation with an unfamiliar black bot surrounded by glasses.

“Constructicons!” Swerve called, a slightly pained grin spreading across his face. “’Fraid you came in at a bad time- Trailcutter here has almost drained me of the rest of my night’s stock.” He indicated the black bot, who stood up, waved drunkenly, swayed on the spot, and stumbled his way out of the bar. “Night, Trailcutter,” the red minibot said, before returning his attention to the Constructicons. “There’s not really much I can offer you in the way of the good stuff- Pit, I’m not even sure there’s any of the good stuff left- but I can try. What’s your poison?”

Scavenger pointed to a large purple case on a shelf beneath the large engex tanks. “_That!_” he cried.

Swerve followed Scavenger’s finger. “The Valium? You sure you boys want that load of dreck? I heard that some bots have died of engex poisoning from drinking one shot worth of it! That stuff’s borderline actual poison!”

“That stuff’s our _favorite!_” said Long Haul. “And now that you finally have it, we want it!”

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind a shot of Platinum Star-” Hook tried to pipe up, before Scavenger cut him off.

“Give us the Valium!” the smallest Constructicon cried.

“Va-li-um! Va-li-um!” chanted Long Haul, pounding his fists enthusiastically on the bar counter.

Swerve shrugged. “If you say so,” he said, hauling the heavy case from the shelf to the counter. Rubbing his left shoulder from the strain, he cracked the case open and produced several bottles of the shimmering, dark purple liquid, which Long Haul immediately snatched up and tucked into. Soon, all three Constructicons had two bottles of Valium, bottles that they were quite loudly enjoying. One by one, the bottles’ contents found their way into the Constructicons’ fuel tanks. One by one, a fresh case of Valium was brought out each time the previous one was emptied. And one by one, the other patrons trickled out of Swerve’s.

Long Haul was too busy having a good time to notice, though- he was currently laughing his aft off as Scavenger and Hook tried to simultaneously arm wrestle him.

“Oh Adaptus, why did I let Ten off for the night?” he thought he heard Swerve mutter eventually, before the red minibot placed not one, not two, but three fresh cases of Valium on the counter. “I’d rather not get a processor-ache from listening to you three shout all night, so I’m going to the back to restock for tomorrow. Feel free to help yourselves. The door’s open; when I get back, I expect you to be out of it or on your way out of it.” And with that, he left them alone.

Long Haul, Hook, and Scavenger paused. They looked at each other for a few moments. Then they burst out laughing with glee at the idea of free, unsupervised indulgence in their favorite drink.

They must have drunk or spilled all the cases in a very short amount of time, because even with their powerful F.I.M chips, the haze of intoxication was strong. It was slowly getting harder to pay attention to their surroundings, but somehow, Long Haul managed to tear his attention away from watching Hook and Scavenger have a staring contest to observe a silhouetted bot sitting in a darkened corner of the bar. “Hey- _hic_\- hey, stranger!” the tall green bot called drunkenly, raising a bottle in greeting and sloshing most of what was left of it onto his arm and the floor. “C’mon over here, let’s- _hic_\- have a drink! You like Valium?!”

The strange bot seemed to raise a hand in greeting… a hand that contorted itself into a familiar position.

There was the sound of snapping fingers.

One, two, three.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

One by one, Scavenger, Hook, and Long Haul passed out.

…

There was a lapse two minutes later. Long Haul awoke just barely enough to see what he thought was Scavenger’s still passed out body sliding away toward the door, and a small, dark, familiar shape pulling it along just beyond.

Then the darkness came back. And it stayed for a lot longer than two minutes.

~

Prowl reeled back against the wall and almost flopped into it, agitating the lingering pain from where Megatron slammed him earlier and wincing. This sort of mental interface had been a wholly different experience than what he had gone through previously. It was hard to describe, but this one felt less like multiple minds struggling to control the whole and more like two minds plugging into a common data-sharing interface. And it left a sort of tangible, almost oozy remnant in his brain module that quickly faded away- transferred remnants of Long Haul’s intoxication, he realized, without knowing how he realized it.

“There,” said Long Haul. “Was that so hard? Why didn’t you just do that from the beginning?”

Prowl was silent.

“Did you find anything useful…?”

“Yes,” Prowl gulped. “Two things.

“One- Swerve is a complete and utter idiot for leaving you three alone.

“And two- Ravage is on board, and he dragged Scavenger somewhere.”

~

The door of the boiler room blew completely off as the blue cyclops tackled Bonecrusher. Despite the bulldozer’s protests and attempt to apologize, the situation had come to blows. Very heavy blows. The pair were a mess of limbs and kibble as they whaled on each other. (Mixmaster stayed behind to cheer his brother on. “Get him, Boney!”)

Somehow, Bonecrusher managed to extract himself from beneath the blue cyclops, and scrambled his way toward the elevator. Before he got very far, his opponent once again tackled him. The blue cyclops got Bonecrusher’s head in his claws and repeatedly slammed his face against the cold steel of the floor.

“I come in to spraypaint my favorite boiler,” the blue cyclops snarled, “and what do I find? _What- do- I- find?!_ A filthy ‘Con throwing a fragging book at me!”

Between impacts, Bonecrusher choked out, “I said… I was sorry!” On the last word, he pulled out a laser pistol that he had swiped from the ship’s armory early into the voyage and popped three shots off at the blue cyclops. They hit him in the glass on his chest, cracking it and causing him to stumble back for a few seconds. This gave Bonecrusher the opportunity to clamber back up on his feet, whereupon he popped off six more shots. He missed half.

The blue cyclops’ chest cannons spat orange beams that bounced off of Bonecrusher’s plating. The bulldozer charged, dropping his laser pistol, and laid a solid right hook across his opponent’s general facial area, following it up with a series of short jabs to the midsection.

“Oh yeah…” the blue cyclops almost moaned as he finally broke away from Bonecrusher. “You got some fight in you, ‘Con. Some good old-fashioned, hot-energon _passion_. I like that. Makes it easier for me to justify what I’m _about to do to you!_” He charged again and wrapped his claws around Bonecrusher’s neck, squeezing and slicing and trying to cut his way through the plating and the vital fuel lines contained beneath. Despite Bonecrusher’s continued pummeling, he continued to hold on.

Bonecrusher wished he hadn’t dropped his laser pistol. And he didn’t want to use his built-in weaponry; it was made for large-scale demolition. He’d risk blowing up the ship with it.

But something caught his gaze- the blue cyclops’ chest cannons. He wrenched them off and turned them on his attacker. The glass on the latter’s chest finally broke, and he was forced to stumble back again. It was now Bonecrusher’s turn to tackle the blue cyclops to the floor. Which he did, with gusto. His fists flew fast and hard as they added several more dents to the blue cyclops’ plating.

For some reason, the blue cyclops seemed to be… _enjoying_ the beatdown. “Why aren’t you talking?” he sputtered between blows.

This question gave Bonecrusher pause. He kept his fist in the air and a confused expression on his face. “What?” he asked.

“Why aren’t you talking?” repeated the blue cyclops. “You know! Witty fight scene banter! Where’s that? That’s kind of what you’re _supposed to do_ in these situations.”

“Really?”

“No. I just wanted to distract you.”

The laser pistol had ended up in the blue cyclops’ claws. A shot was popped off, and though it once again bounced off of Bonecrusher’s plating, it did still catch him by surprise. He found himself being kicked off against the wall, and suddenly pinned there.

The blue cyclops ran the tip of his free claw tenderly along a neck seam. “That’s some lovely thick plating you got here,” he growled softly. “Be a shame if I were to _pull it all off._”

“_Not if I pull yours off first!_” Bonecrusher hollered. He freed one of his arms from the blue cyclops’ grip and threw a mighty backhand slap at his head, much to Mixmaster’s delight. With the same motion, he grabbed his attacker’s neck and shoulders and pulled him in for a headbutt. Plating that was not his crumpled beneath the blow; it was a good feeling. He took his hand away, and he took one of the blue cyclops’ shoulder wings with it.

The blue cyclops cackled. “_There’s_ that witty banter I was looking for!”

And the fight carried on.

~

“What in the name of Sargasso’s third sun are _you_ doing here?” cried Scavenger.

Ravage took a seat, quietly purring. “I’m here on behalf of Soundwave. And I’m here for Megatron. I’ve been keeping my eye on him, and for the last week, you too, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, you haven’t actually decided to live out your lives as the enemy, as we’ve feared you have.”

“Enemy? Ravage, the war’s over! There… rrgh… there are no enemies anymore!”

“Aren’t there? Tell that to the Decepticons who remained on Cybertron under the Autobots’ thumb. The Decepticons who were forced to submit to the very oppressors we’ve been fighting against for four million years. The Decepticons who had to live in a ‘peace time’ that was in name only. The Decepticons who _died_ for the crime of merely standing up for what they believe in! There’s still very much an enemy, Scavenger, and Megatron throwing his lot in with them is- it’s…” The fire seemed to die in Ravage’s speech. “It’s disheartening.

“Soundwave fears the worst. He fears that Megatron’s change of spark might not be a ruse, and that he really is leaving us behind. That’s why I’m here. And now that I know you Constructicons are here, I suppose you are why I’m here too.”

Scavenger was silent for several moments. “What… what do we have to do with anything?” he finally asked.

The felinoid bot sighed. “You have a choice to make. You _all_ do- you, your Constructicon brothers, Megatron. You can choose whether or not your abandoning the Decepticons is just an act, or if it’s real. If it’s an act, then like I said earlier, you won’t come to any more harm, and we’ll all return home. We’ll all return to the way it was. But if it’s real… if you really have left us behind…” The words hung in the air, inviting Scavenger to draw his own conclusions.

The conclusions he came to were not pleasant.

But he knew what he was going to choose.

“I… I won’t go back with you.”

“Are you sure?” Ravage asked.

“Yes.”

“I know how you think, Scavenger. Do you really think that you’re going to feel any sense of belonging staying with the Autobots? Staying with _Prowl?_ Look at where your ‘loyalty’ to him has gotten you. I’ve seen it. He treats you like a rust stain. You are nothing in his eyes, _less_ than nothing. He has no respect for you, no regard for you, no _love_ for you. He only wants you _gone_.”

“That’s not true!” Scavenger protested.

“Isn’t it?!” challenged Ravage.

“It’s not!” In his spark, though, the smallest Constructicon knew that it was. “It’s not…”

“You don’t belong with him,” the felinoid bot said. “You don’t belong here, on this ship full of nobodies who hate you for the purple you wear. You _can’t_ belong here. Come back to the Decepticons. That’s where you can belong. You and your brothers will always have a place there.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just _can’t!_”

“_Why not?!_”

Why not, indeed? Why couldn’t Scavenger find it in him to go back to the faction where he was abused and belittled, but still accepted? What was keeping him tethered to Prowl, who at this rate would never accept him, only continue to abuse and belittle him and his brothers? Was it just the gestalt bond talking? Or was it… something else?

“Why not, Scavenger?” whispered Ravage.

All Scavenger could think of to say was, “… Because Megatron told us to abandon the Decepticons.”

Ravage sighed. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Did he?

“I… I don’t know.”

“You’re having doubts about your path, and that’s okay. Megatron always said we’d have moments of doubt. It’s part of every Decepticon’s journey.”

“But what if I don’t _want_ to keep on the Decepticon journey? Megatron also said that change- the change in us, the change in the world- was what we _needed_.” Scavenger paused, not quite sure where he was going with this. Then… “The world’s clearly changed, Ravage. Maybe I feel like I haven’t, or like I haven’t changed enough. Maybe… maybe staying with Prowl and leaving the ‘Cons behind is the major change I need to make for myself. I don’t know… I don’t know what I believe. But I do know that… I don’t think I want to go back.”

Again, Ravage sighed. (Boy, he must have really liked sighing.) “Forget right here, right now. Take some time. Think about what I’ve said- about the facts- and then make your choice. And I do hope you’ll make the _right one_. Come find me when you’re ready.”

“But where-”

At that moment, the door opened, allowing bright interior light to flood in. Scavenger winced, and when he stopped wincing, Ravage was gone. In his place were several silhouettes that clattered around and made a bunch of noise. Three of them looked familiar…

“Scavenger!” cried Hook, throwing himself at his brother in a tight hug.

“OOF!” oof’ed Scavenger. “Please be careful, my shoulder still hurts.”

“Sorry. But I’m so glad you’re alive! We were so worried about you!” Hook tried to pull him into a gentler hug, being careful around the shoulder, but he was shoved aside by an all too familiar black-and-white bot.

“Where’s Ravage?” Prowl barked, almost shoving the barrel of a new blaster into Scavenger’s face. “I know he dragged you in here. Where did he go?”

“Primus, you two, don’t just assault him like that,” clucked Long Haul. “Can’t you see he’s been through the wringer? He needs a medical berth and a recharge, not a tackle and an interrogation.” Gently, the tall green bot picked the small one up in his arms and lifted him out of the closet bridal style. It was a welcome feeling, Scavenger thought, after losing an arm and a lot of his energon, to be in his brother’s arms. He liked the almost motherly way Long Haul treated him.

“Come on,” soothed Long Haul, wading through a small crowd of other colorful bots.

As they left, Scavenger could see Prowl and a blue-and-yellow bot stay behind to examine the closet.

Seemingly no regard for him.

Just like Ravage had said…

~

“So how’d you figure out where he was, Prowl?” asked Hook.

Prowl, Hook, and Long Haul were standing outside the medibay, watching through a window as Ratchet and Hoist worked to reattach Scavenger’s removed arm. The two Constructicons were clearly relieved, but not Prowl. There were still things gnawing at the back of his brain module.

When he and Nightbeat had investigated the closet that Scavenger had been found in, there had been no sign of Ravage. Of course not- he’d expect nothing less from one of the Decepticons’ most famous infiltrators. So that meant that Ravage was still at large within the _Lost Light_, and since he wasn’t allowed to interrogate Scavenger, he wouldn’t know just where the felinoid bot had gone until he actually snooped that out for himself. Terrific.

The other major thing eating at him was the identity of the mysterious bot that he had glimpsed through Long Haul’s memory transfer. The bot that had snapped their fingers shortly before the three drinkers had passed out. He had not been able to discern a distinct silhouette, but maybe that small flask Nightbeat had found in the corner of Swerve’s was relevant after all. He’d look into it later.

“Prowl?” asked Hook again.

“Hm? Oh, right.

“So while Long Haul and I had our, er, _conversation_ with Chromedome, Nightbeat wandered off again and bumped into the security team from earlier. They were fiddling with one of the middle deck cameras, investigating an apparent failure to record for about ten minutes during the time you three were at Swerve’s. Specifically, the ten minute stretch before, during, and immediately after you all passed out. Nightbeat found a device inside designed to loop pre-existing footage through the camera to make it _look_ like real-time footage was being sent to the security viewscreens. Somebody had planted one in each middle deck camera.” Could it have been the mystery bot?

“After Long Haul shared his memories of the drinking incident with me, and I learned that Ravage was responsible for Scavenger’s disappearance, it was only a matter of finding where he had dragged him off to. That was when Nightbeat and the security team ran into me and told me about the cameras not recording. I knew that Ravage would take advantage of non-recording cameras to do his work, so somewhere on the middle deck was the most logical choice of location. After that, we came back to Swerve’s for you to join our little search party.

“I kept an eye on the cameras as we continued our patrol, just in case they could offer anything else useful. The one just above the closet we found Scavenger in? The recording light on it was off. The security team picked it apart and, sure enough, found one of the devices inside it; in trying to deactivate, the device had accidentally malfunctioned and was still looping false footage through the camera. Which meant that it wasn’t recording, which made that little area the perfect place to do some shady things without being observed. A look at the door controls, which were marred by small claw marks, confirmed my suspicion- that was where Ravage had taken Scavenger.

“And then we just opened the door. There was Scavenger, missing his arm.” And missing Ravage.

Hook whistled, clearly impressed. (Primus, but the Constructicons seemed to always be impressed by him. He hated that.)

“Thank you again, so much, for helping us find Scavenger,” said Long Haul.

Prowl scoffed. “Help you? I did most of the work. You two just bumbled behind.”

“Now, you know that’s not true. _I_ helped. Without me sharing my memories with you, it’s likely we _never_ would have found Scavenger.” Long Haul’s hands were on his hip struts. His tone was stern, almost like a parent scolding a child.

“You keep telling yourself that,” said Prowl. He knew deep down that Long Haul’s memories had only expedited the investigation, and that the withholding of them would only have delayed the inevitable solving of the mystery. They were not the vital piece of the puzzle. The various small details that he, Prowl, had been trained to notice… they were what had played the largest part. And they would play equally large parts in finding out Ravage’s location and the identity of the mystery bot.

Speaking of small details, if Scavenger was being repaired, and the tingling in his frame only occurred when a gestalt component was in bad shape… then why was his frame still tingling?

~

“You wanna know why you lost?”

Bonecrusher could barely hear the blue cyclops’ voice; it seemed to be coming from far away, even though it was actually very close. The beating he had received must have knocked his audials out of whack. He tried not to focus on the voice, instead focusing on his dangling hands, and on the knocked-out form of Mixmaster in the boiler room doorway. (He had gotten conked on the head somewhere in the fight.)

The bulldozer’s battered body was draped over the equally battered blue cyclops’ shoulder. It bounced with every step his victor took.

It seemed as though Bonecrusher had found an opponent who fought wilder, dirtier, and more unexpectedly than him. He didn’t think that would ever be possible. What a wonder. What a painful wonder.

“I’ll tell you why you lost, ol’ buddy ol’ pal. You lost because of four words- I’m. Great. You. Suck. I’m ex-Wreckers, baby; I’ve fought ‘Cons bigger and badder than you before I’ve had my morning engex. And _survived_. No ‘Con’s ever managed to kill me. No ‘Con _can_ kill me! I think the only bot in the universe who could actually kill me is… me. And I’m starting to doubt even _that_.

“Long story short, you lost because I’m the greatest and you’re a piece of scrap. Maybe me beating the ever-loving slag out of you is what’ll finally get ol’ Megsy to notice me!” He cackled at the thought.

Bonecrusher shut out the blue cyclops’ bragging as they trundled along to wherever he was being taken.

He had been stressed out about Scavenger going missing when he had fought. He didn’t fight well when he was stressed out. On a good day, and with access to his demolition weaponry, he could put up a great fight, one that he could put all of his effort into. But when he was stressed, that meant other things occupied his mind space. Mind space that could have been devoted to fighting. A lack of weaponry and an enclosed space did nothing to help.

He felt himself being jostled. “Hey! Are you listening to me?!”

Bonecrusher groaned and flopped. He ached too much to talk. He felt like he was made entirely out of dents.

“As I was saying, I don’t like you. Not one bit, because you’re a filthy fragging ‘Con and all that. But… you put up a good fight. You lost, of course, but you put up a good fight. And I can respect that. So I’ll tell you what, I’m not going to toss you into the furnace today. I’ll let you live. _But only today_. Next time I fight you- next time I _win_\- that’ll be the last loss ever for you. And then I’ll melt you down into scrap tutonium and use you for a codpiece.”

There seemed to be a long stretch of silence at the end of the blue cyclops’ bragging. Maybe it hadn’t been that long; he wasn’t exactly paying attention. But Bonecrusher certainly paid attention to being tossed to the floor. He landed flat on his back. The impact knocked the wind completely out of him, and his vision blurred for a few seconds. When it cleared, he found himself looking up into the faces of Prowl, Hook, and Long Haul.

The two Constructicons looked surprised and concerned. Prowl just looked annoyed, as per usual. He smiled weakly at them, as if to say, “I did my best.”

“I believe this belongs to you,” the blue cyclops said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finals are over, which means that i can safely post this chapter without having to worry about my grades.  
thus concludes the mystery, ladies and gentlemen. it's no delphi two-parter, but i'm still very glad with how it turned out on the whole. would you believe this was my first serious foray into the world of mystery? it was a challenge, i will admit, revealing little things bit by bit (remember- little details...) and keeping things consistent, all while trying to hew as close to the source as possible, but again, on the whole i think i did a pretty good job.  
the focus of this half was definitely on the characters, instead of the plot. while i wanted the plot to progress, i also wanted to reveal something new about each of the players' personalities- prowl blames others for his bad choices going wrong, scavenger has a need to feel belonging and acceptance in a group, long haul's basically the constructicons' team mom, etc. bonecrusher's violent tendencies also got some room to shine in his fight scene with whirl, which i had way too much fun writing. (slightly masochist whirl is best whirl.)  
next chapter will be a breather, to let this fic rest before the next big arc...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTERLUDE: In which the _Lost Light_ers have themselves a day.

“… And then Long Haul said that Prowl hadn’t actually asked any witnesses what happened, and then I said, ‘Oh Adaptus, don't suggest one of Prowl’s interrogations,’ because you know how they are, right? They’re long, and intense, and grueling; basically like Magnus giving a presentation on proper sprinkler etiquette, minus the sprinklers, and minus anything remotely enjoyable. Oh, speaking of Magnus and sprinklers, the hot gossip going around is that apparently he writes sprinkler fanfiction in his spare time? I mean, it’s good that he’s found himself something to do besides frowning and yelling at everybody, but still, you’d think he’d do something besides write _fanfiction_, of all things. Anyway, so I said, ‘Don't suggest one of Prowl’s interrogations,’ and then Long Haul said, ‘But maybe an interrogation would help,’ and then Prowl said…”

Slamdance’s fingers danced a frenzy across his datapad’s keyboard as he tried to record absolutely everything Swerve was saying. Their conversation in the bar had derailed into a discussion of the missing bot investigation last night, and Slamdance had thought it would make a great first headline for his fledgling publication, the _Lost Light Insider_.

He was regretting asking Swerve for a scoop, however. A lot of what the red minibot was spouting was fluff. It’d be the Pit on him and his editor, Sprocket.

“… So then Prowl left me alone with Nightbeat and Hook, so I started cleaning up all the stuff that I was told I could touch, and Nightbeat was getting bored- you know how he gets when he’s not snooping around- so he asked me to tell him about Valium. And you know me, I’m a bartender, I know my way around liquor, so I was more than happy to tell him about it, but then you know what happened? You wanna know what happened?”

“Swerve, I don’t think that this is-”

“Hook totally stole my thunder! He was all, “_I’m_ a liquor enthusiast, let _me_ tell him!’”

Slamdance stood up and just left the bar. Somehow, Swerve was so wrapped up in rattling off words that he didn’t notice.

The reporter stared at his datapad and sighed. The file on which he had recorded all of Swerve’s ramblings was quite large. A lot of its content was unusable; he and Sprocket would trim all the chaff out later. In fact, it was likely that almost everything Swerve had said would end up on the cutting room floor. For now, he went ahead and forwarded the file to Sprocket, fully expecting to receive an angry message in response.

And then, who should pass by but Hook himself.

A first-hand witness to the events of the situation? With a possibility of being almost infinitely more coherent and concise than Swerve’s second-hand nonsense? Perfect for a proper scoop! He absolutely _had_ to get an interview!

“Hook!” shouted Slamdance, sprinting to catch up with the Constructicon. “_Hook!_ I’m Slamdance, from the _Lost Light Insider_. Care to offer a word or two about your experiences during the missing bot mystery?”

~

Why had he thrown Prowl against the wall?

Megatron sat hunched on his hab-suite recharge slab and wondered about his handling of Prowl’s rule-breaking last night, and about the question the latter had posed to him during their scuffle… if one could call it that. How _would_ Optimus react to him manhandling one of his, Optimus’, own personal retinue, as well as a fellow _Lost Light_er?

His new position of leadership had come with a large level of scrutiny; any slip-ups, any noticeable reversion to his old Decepticon ways, and that’d be that. No more Knights of Cybertron quest to delay his inevitable verdict. No more trying to convince anyone that his desire for redemption was genuine. They’d retry him and execute him, and there’d be no legal loopholes to save him then.

Slamming Prowl against a wall would not help in dispelling his reputation as a brute, even if the black-and-white bot was infuriatingly stubborn and apparently anti-authority. Megatron resolved to try and keep a closer eye on him, and to punish him properly next time he caught him disobeying orders.

~

Prowl wandered down a random corridor, optics glued to his datapad, to the file loaded on it that he had been commanded not to open. His finger hovered a small distance over it. It would have been a lie to say that he had not considered opening it during the last week or so, to see what all the fuss was about, but he would not. He would not be able to win Optimus back if he did.

A metallic shuffling noise wrenched his attention away from the pad. He looked up to see a familiar blue-and-yellow aft poking out of an air ventilation duct.

“Nightbeat?”

_Clang._ “Ouch.”

“What in the Pit are you doing?”

Nightbeat eased himself out, rubbing his head. “_Snooping!_” he said. “There are still loose ends to the ‘disappearing Scavenger’ mystery. Like where Ravage went. Remember that bombshell you dropped on me?”

“Oh. Right.” Prowl flicked off the datapad and tucked it into his personal subspace. “Well, while you’re here talking about that, there’s something I’d like to address with you.”

“Oh?”

The black-and-white bot furrowed his brow. He wasn’t quite used to saying things like this, but he was going to try anyway. “Er… _thank you_. Thanks for your help last night. It’s likely that without your observations, the investigation would have gone on for much too long.” Somewhat awkward, he thought, but it was enough to convey his feelings. He finished by extending a hand to Nightbeat, who took it and gave a firm handshake.

“Any time. If ever you need any other mysteries solved, you know who to call.”

Prowl nodded. “You’ll keep me posted on the Ravage situation, right? I’d appreciate being able to keep a tab on that.”

“Of course. And speaking of tabs…” Nightbeat leaned in and said in a low voice, “Maybe put one on Brainstorm while you’re at it. Swerve let slip that he had produced the Valium that the Constructicons overdosed on, which seems pretty sketchy, considering what happened.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I don’t know, either.”

Prowl filed Brainstorm away into a mental memory file pertaining to the mystery’s still-loose ends. It seemed like his role in this was small and insignificant, but again, small and seemingly insignificant things often led to big things in events like last night. “Thanks,” he said again. And he and Nightbeat parted ways …

Only for him to bump into someone else.

“… Hey, chief.”

The white, pink, and navy colors were unmistakable.

“… _Getaway?_”

Prowl remembered Getaway; he had worked with him in Autobot Special Operations, and had sent him on that fateful mission with Skids to get Chief Justice Tyrest to resign. The black-and-white bot had never been one to immediately tie up loose ends unless doing so was in his personal agenda; most of the time, he shoved the less important ones to the bottom of his priority list, or let them fall off his priority list entirely. Such had been the case with Getaway’s failure to return home after the Tyrest assignment- Prowl had simply assumed Getaway had died, and moved on.

Getaway smiled behind his mouthplate. “Wow. It’s… actually really good to see you again. Pretty crazy that we’d meet back up here, of all places. Even crazier that you, me, and Skids are all finally back in the same place. The old gang, back together. Just like old times, huh?” The colorful bot playfully bopped Prowl on the shoulder. Prowl was not amused. Getaway’s face fell.

There was an awkward silence between the pair, before Getaway broke it again. “It’s probably not a good time for you, but I just want to let you know… I’m not mad at you, you know. For not coming back for me on Luna 1. It sucked, for sure- as torture usually does- but I held on, ‘cos I knew that you had other, _more important_ things to focus on than coming back for one little bot. I knew you were out there doing your job, and that gave me the strength to keep doing mine, I guess.” He paused. “Long story short, everything’s okay between you and me. I’m not mad.”

Getaway had done something that few bots could do- he had _caught Prowl by surprise_. Both with his very presence, and with his new claim. The last bot he had left dangling for a period of time had gone on an almost-murderous spree, demanding a reckoning with the bot that had ruined his life. That Getaway was calm, reasonable, and willing to put being left on Luna 1 behind them was… a refreshing change of pace.

“That’s good,” he said. “I’m glad to see you again.” In truth, Prowl had no strong feelings toward seeing Getaway alive and safe, just as he would have had no strong feelings if Getaway had died.

Getaway nodded. “Hey, maybe us three can get back to working together on this ship, eh?” he chuckled. But Prowl noticed a glint of something in the colorful bot’s visage, something that hinted that the smile (or rough equivalent thereof) on his face didn’t quite fully extend to his optics. “Anyway, I gotta go; Skids and I are due for some catching up and sharing of gadgets. See you around, chief. Keep in touch.” He strolled off, leaving Prowl alone again.

~

The purple demon strode through the doors of the medibay, red optics fixed unwavering on his destination, on his prize. Ratchet saw him and respectfully parted, leaving him alone. Pulling up a stray stool, he gazed forlornly at what he had come for, but his optics came unfocused. Many thoughts turned in his brain module as he stared into space.

Why had he saved Tailgate, the purple demon wondered? Why had he taken the advice of his enemy (or not; the situation with Whirl was still yet to be solidified) and made action to delay the inevitable? Tailgate was going to die, as they all were, and he had told the little white bot to make peace with it and face it head on. Was restoring his spark energy with the power of the Great Sword robbing him of that peace? In saving his life, had he accidentally doomed him to suffer even more of the misfortune that seemed inescapable on this ship?

The purple demon reached up and brushed a set of claws across his left horn- the one that Tailgate had made for him- feeling the grooves, kinks, and imperfections. Replacing unnecessary body parts was against his religion, but he had done so anyway. Why had he done this, he also wondered? Was it for the same reason that he had tried to save Tailgate’s life, albeit on a smaller scale?

Was it because he _cared_ about Tailgate?

But _why?_ Why did he care? That was the big question. Tailgate had no inherent value to the purple demon; the only thing they had in common was that they were both very old. And he thought that he had made that very clear in the short time they had spent together. Yet still the little white bot persisted in trying to befriend him. Perhaps this was why he was beginning to care about Tailgate. Perhaps he appreciated the presence of a bot on this ship willing to look past his fearsome appearance, sour demeanor, and role in the war, and seek friendship… or at the very least, something of a good relation. Few other bots here were willing to do that.

And that led to one final _why_. Why was Tailgate trying to befriend him? Why, despite the blows, the kicks, and the expressed sentiment to drop dead, did Tailgate insist on sharing drinks, or offering gifts like the replacement horn? Again, the two had nothing in common. What was it that the little white bot saw in the purple demon?

His optics refocused, and he once again gazed at the peacefully recovering Tailgate. There he sat for a period of time- whether minutes or hours, he could not tell.

When the purple demon left, the number of innermost energon vials next to Tailgate had increased by one.

~

“Swerve!”

Bluestreak practically rammed into the bar counter, startling Swerve and causing him to drop the keg of engex he was emptying into the dispensers. The heavy container landed on the bartender’s foot, causing him to release a string of words more colorful than Aquafend’s paint job. He looked crossly at Bluestreak, who was followed shortly by a slightly concerned-looking Hoist. “Don’t scare me like that!” he reprimanded.

“Sorry,” said Bluestreak, “but this is an emergency!”

“Oh, scrap! What is it? Is the subspace hatch broken? Has Mirage started going on again about what a dump he thinks my place is? _Has Magnus threatened to shut me down again?_”

“Even worse! Hoist doesn’t know what Pink Floyd is!”

“I really don’t,” Hoist piped up.

Bluestreak continued, “And as the _Lost Light_’s recently appointed entertainment officer, I feel like I’d be remiss in my duties by not educating him, and everyone else, on this and other Earth bands. So I’m here to make a proposition for you.”

“What kind of proposition?” Swerve asked, now completely unconvinced that the two bots’ predicament was a real emergency.

“I want to install a jukebox in your bar,” beamed Bluestreak. “Think about it! One simple piece of equipment in a centralized, easy to access location. Bots from all across the ship convening in your bar to have a drink while exposing themselves to the wide array of Earth music! You get more business, I get my job done, and Hoist can finally be free of his ignorance. A win-win-win!”

“Hey…” Hoist protested.

Swerve pinched his chin and mulled the blue bot’s offer over. “I like what I hear,” he said after a short while. “There’s just one small, teensy, itty-bitty problem that we need to smooth over before I can fully accept your proposition.”

“And what’s that?” asked Bluestreak.

“What in the Pit is a jukebox?”

~

Down in the Constructicons’ boiler room, Long Haul, Mixmaster, and Hook were all gathered around the freshly-repaired Scavenger, who had summoned them all here to tell them about what had happened, what he had experienced during his time missing. They were still waiting for Bonecrusher to arrive, and Hook was getting impatient.

“Come on, Scavenger, just _tell us_ already! If Bonecrusher misses it, then sucks for him!”

“No!” protested the smallest Constructicon. “I have to tell all of you, or none of you!”

Long Haul’s patience was also wearing thin. “I swear, the only thing Bonecrusher seems to be on time for is kickboxing lessons,” he muttered. “That boy needs to learn better time management.”

“Speak of Mortilus, here comes that boy,” said a voice from the boiler room door (still not repaired). Bonecrusher came in, his plating fresh, polished, and undented after his extensive time spent in the medibay with Ratchet. “Sorry I’m late, guys; I ran into that blue fella from last night and had to convince him not to send me back to the doctor so soon. What’s up?” He hunkered down in the little huddle of green and purple.

And so, Scavenger told his brothers about last night. With the aid of their gestalt bond memory sharing, he painted a picture for them of his encounter with Ravage, about the choice he- and they- had been presented, and about his own feelings about staying with Prowl, all the while unaware that the felinoid bot who had presented them with that choice was camped out in the ventilation shaft right above them, watching and listening…

~

Nautica waved goodbye to Skids as he went off with Getaway, leaving her alone in the port-side shuttlecraft hangar. It was quiet there; perfect for undisturbed conversation or reading a book. Now that the former had been, well, disturbed, it was time for her to turn to the latter. _The Asteroid Association Guide to the Lifeforms of the Galaxy_, nicked straight from the _Lost Light_’s rather small library.

It had been a week or so since takeoff, and her experience had been fun! She had enjoyed the introductory tour Crosscut had given, and after some adjusting, had started involving herself in some of the ship’s usual day-to-day hijinks. Hand-grenade tag with Sureshot and Waverider wasn’t her thing, but she really enjoyed the impromptu open mic at Swerve’s the other day. Sometimes, though, it was a little too much.

Since coming aboard, she had met several bots that she liked right away. Crosscut she wasn’t so fond of- his love of the performing arts reminded her uncomfortably of Caminus, and he kept calling her by the wrong pronouns. But she liked Skids, and she liked the ship’s chief scientific minds, Perceptor and Brainstorm. She wanted to work closely with them in the future. Getaway, from what she had seen of him, also seemed like a nice fellow. And-

“Hey, Nautica? Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Oh! Riptide!” exclaimed the purple femme. She liked Riptide, too, bless his spark. The poor bot just wanted to learn, and nobody else seemed willing to help him with that. “No, no, you’re perfectly alright! Come here.” She patted the floor next to her, inviting the big navy bot to sit down. “What’s up?”

Riptide sat, and shyly held up a copy of _Manos’ Advanced Dictionary of Chirolinguistics- 28th Edition_. “Can you help me practice my hand some more?”

“Sure! Let's see if we can get you signing a proper formal greeting by the end of the day-”

A spare nut suddenly pinged off of Riptide’s head.

“_Booooo._”

The pair looked up to see Whirl lounging on top of one of the shuttlecraft in the hangar; the words spraypainted on the prow denoted it as the _Dicamus_. The blue cyclops picked another nut off the top of the boxy orange ship and flicked it again at Riptide. It pinged solidly off again. For someone who lacked depth perception, his aim was pretty good. “_Booooo_, I say.”

“What are you booing about now, Whirl?” called Nautica.

“Him,” said Whirl, pointing a claw at Riptide. “A giant blue bot trying to learn how to speak hand? He reminds me of what I _could have been_. What I could be if I still had my old grippers.”

“‘He’ is sitting right here, and ‘he’ can hear you,” said Nautica.

“‘He’ can speak for himself,” mumbled Riptide.

_Ping. _This one hit _her_ on the head.

“Well, ‘I’ was here first. Begone with you, shadows of my nonexistent self, and cease your lubricating me off with your literate hands.” Nautica had never pegged Whirl as the type to be even slightly eloquent, or at least the type to use the word “begone.” She was slightly impressed.

Riptide leaned over to Nautica and whispered, “Can you maybe teach me how to tell him to _frag off_, too?”

“_Absolutely_.”

~

"Your attention for a moment. This is Rewind, showing you edited footage from my database. I've probably got about 0.8 seconds before game over, so hear me out. I've always been terrified that you'd die before I did, because you and me apart strikes me as intensely wrong. So promise me something. Be brave. And be strong. And keep going without me. And another thing: no more injecting. It _will_ kill you. And remember: you deserve to be happy. The New Institute was the old you. You're a better person now- stubborn and frustrating, but wonderful. And to think, I will never see you again. One more thing-one last thing- because I don't say it enough: _I love you_."

…

_Click._

"Your attention for a moment. This is Rewind, showing you edited footage from my database…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas, you wonderful/terrible people. here's my gift to you.  
this is literally just a short filler episode, written to relax after finals and take a break from the ten-odd page chapters of dickery that have taken up most of the story so far. i wanted to shed some light on some of the other bots who won't take center stage too often, showcase what some of them are thinking at this stage of their quest, and establish new relationships and develop already introduced ones. i also wanted to address a few more loose ends from the mystery two-parter, as well as start dangling one or two more.  
in this chapter's comments, please let me know what you think of the whole story so far! what do you like? what do you think i could improve on? what would you like to maybe see in the future of this fic? your feedback helps me write a better story, so please don't hold back.  
i hope your day today was great, that santa was kind to you, and that you have a happy new year!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl spends some more time with Rung, in and out of the office.

_Session 0011_

_This was our first session since the excitement of the missing bot mystery had died down. I had specifically avoided talking about it with Prowl while it was still fresh, but I doubted he would want to talk about it even if it was stale. Still, however, there was no harm in trying, and talking about it would lead me to a point of conversation that I had been… interested in exploring ever since the start of our sessions._

_“Have you, by any chance, read the latest edition of the _Lost Light Insider_?” I asked._

_Prowl grunted. “Maybe once or twice. Tabloids aren’t really my preferred reading material.”_

_“Which is understandable. You probably already know this, but Slamdance put the mystery you and Nightbeat solved as his headlining story.”_

_“I do.”_

_“And yet, for all of the sources he went to for information- Hook, Nightbeat, Swerve-”_

_“Most of what Swerve said in that headline was fluff.”_

_“… And yet, for all of these sources, you’re conspicuously absent from them. Why is that?”_

_“I declined an interview.”_

_“Was there a reason?”_

_“I have better things to do with my time on this Pit of a ship than share gossip with an amateur publication.”_

_“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m not an amateur publication, and I don’t believe that your testimony is reducible to mere gossip…”_

_“Is that a roundabout way of you asking me to tell you my side of the mystery?”_

_“You’re very perceptive, Prowl. Yes, I would like to hear about the mystery from the one who solved it.”_

_“Just to be clear, none of what I say is going to leave this room, right?”_

_“Of course not.”_

_“Good. If it did, we’d have some words.” It sounded like a threat. Threatening a psychiatrist is a poor move, in my opinion._

_“Whenever you’re ready.”_

_Prowl sighed, and began his story._

_“You’ll forgive me if I spare you elaborating on all the minutiae of the thing. Suffice to say, Long Haul and Hook came to bother me about finding Scavenger, who had left his arm behind in Swerve’s. They, Nightbeat, and I went there to investigate, and found that whatever had happened, had happened while the Constructicons were in a drunken stupor. The security team that night refused to give me the camera recordings of the time they had spent in the bar, Megatron threw me into a wall, and I went off to see… an old acquaintance about some help instead.”_

_“Why did Megatron throw you into a wall?”_

_“Because I wanted the security team’s help. Apparently, wanting the involvement of the ship’s staff to speed things along counts as a violation, or something.”_

_“Did you know that it counted as a violation?”_

_“… No.”_

_That hesitation indicated to me that he was not being entirely honest. “And then what happened?”_

_“Then Long Haul and I had a scuffle with… our acquaintance, who refused to help.”_

_“Who was your acquaintance?”_

_“Unimportant. After that Long Haul violated my brain module again, but he gave me some of his memories of the situation, which led to me piecing together what had happened to Scavenger. So I guess that was… sort of helpful. That, combined with Nightbeat’s futzing about with the security team, led to us finding Scavenger in a closet. Nobody would let me interrogate him about what he specifically had gone through.”_

_“I see.” I took a pause, processing all he had told me. His omission of his acquaintance’s identity was also worrying, but as I had hoped, the topic I really wanted to explore had been presented throughout his story- his feelings toward the Constructicons. “I couldn’t help but notice, Prowl, that in your story you’ve consistently given the Constructicons negative connotations. They _bothered _you, they were in a _stupor_, he _violated_ your brain module.”_

_“What other kind of connotation am I supposed to give them?”_

_“I don’t know. But I would like to know why you talked about them the way you did.”_

_His voice took on an uncomfortable growl. “Because they’re terrible, they’re sorry excuses for bots, and they need to be thrown off of this ship.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Why?” He scoffed. “You ask me why. Have you forgotten? They’re _Decepticons!_ Decepticons who’ve committed countless atrocities against us, and against the galaxy! And yet here they are, waltzing around the _Lost Light_ with naught but a slap on the wrist, as if nothing ever happened! I’m not willing to let four million years of their brutality slide so easily, and neither should anyone else!”_

_“But-”_

_“And on top of that, for Primus knows what reason, they’ve got the nerve to latch on to _me!_ Of all the bots on this bucket of bolts for them to hang around with, they had to pick _me!_ Just because we were forced into a gestalt together, and the bond is still active. That was the worst experience of my life, and I’ll be forgiven, I hope, if I don’t want them following me and reminding me of it, and possibly running the risk of spontaneous combination and reliving it. So yes, I speak of them with negative connotations, because that’s what they deserve.”_

_We sat in silence for a short while, with him calming down from his rant, and me once again processing what he had told me. I broke the silence by asking, “Have you asked them why they’ve taken a shining to you?”_

_“No,” he admitted._

_“So your belief that your gestalt bond is the only thing that endears you to them is merely an assumption, correct?”_

_“I… suppose so.”_

_“But I remember you telling me that you valued facts over assumptions during one of our earlier sessions. Didn’t you?”_

_“… Where are you going with this?”_

_“Maybe you should _ask them_ why they’ve latched on to you. Perhaps there’s more to it than just your gestalt bond.”_

_“I’m not going to do that.”_

_“Certainly you don’t have to do it right away. But I still think you should.”_

_“Certainly, I’m not going to do it at all. I don’t want to talk to them, and I don’t want to talk about them to you. Can we drop the subject now?”_

_“For now, yes.” I had every intent of revisiting his relationship with the Constructicons in later sessions, however._

_While I cannot say that Prowl’s reasons for disliking the Constructicons are entirely unreasonable, there seem to be quite a few barriers he has set up that prevent anything beyond his dislike to develop. He seems stubbornly set on disregarding the fact that the Constructicons have continuously expressed their desire to change from their old Decepticon ways, apparently only regarding them through the lens of their past actions. His clinging to the past seems to be a recurring theme for him. It is unhealthy._

~

_Session 0018_

_“Prowl, I’m a bit worried about you. I don’t see you around the ship, I don’t see you talking to other bots. In fact, it seems to me like you go out of your way to _avoid _other bots. Isn’t there anyone here that you would consider your friend?”_

_“There’s certainly nobody here that would consider me their friend,” said Prowl, cushioning his head with his arms._

_“I’m sure there have to be a few. And if they don’t consider you a friend, then there has to be the possibility that _some_ of them would be open to it.”_

_He scoffed. “_Highly unlikely_. In case you’ve had your audials turned off, every bot on board blames me for their constant misfortunes; not exactly the kind of attitude conducive to a blossoming friendship.” I made a note to explore that claim in a later session. “And anyway, friendships aren’t really high on my list of priorities. Haven’t been for a while.”_

_“Why is that?”_

_“One- I’ve had four million years of war and the slag-show after it to focus on instead. And two, every friendship I’ve ever had has ended just terribly, so why bother trying anymore?”_

_“Prowl, I think you’re exaggerating a little. Just because some of your past friendships have ended poorly, doesn’t mean that all of them will.”_

_“Don’t downplay my experiences, Rung. I’m not exaggerating; literally _every friendship_ I’ve _ever had_ has ended badly. My old scientific partner blamed me for him going off the deep end with his experiments, and went ax-crazy when I decided to break off our partnership. Chromedome ripped a hole in my brain when I tried to convince him to do something he didn’t want to do. Through that hole, the Decepticons brainwashed me and surgically altered me against my will, and nobody on Cybertron that I considered a friend cared enough to see if I was okay. Not Bumblebee, not Arcee, not Sideswipe. Pit, none of them even cared enough to _notice_ that anything was different; they just turned on me when things went wrong. If I’m so unimportant to them that they _backstab_ me the moment something happens that they don’t like, then I see no reason for me to try and repair things with them, or subject myself to that with someone else.”_

_Oh dear._

_Prowl shedding light on his past relationships confirmed what I have been thinking for a small while now- that he has had few experiences with healthy relationships. An understandable, if tragic, reason for him to want to distance himself from personal connections. “Why do you think that they felt you were unimportant to them?” I hazarded._

_“Nobody’s ever been interested in me as a person; they’ve only been interested in my actions, and even then only if what I was doing also served their own interests. And as I’ve said, the moment my actions or intents stopped aligning with theirs, they stopped defending me.”_

_“So you believe that people only want to, pardon the rhyme, befriend and defend you because they have ulterior motives?”_

_“That’s always been the case. Pit, that’s the reason I’m even here. Optimus doesn’t consider me a friend; if he did, he’d want to work out the problems that he clearly has with me. Instead, he just put me on a ship going far away somewhere else, to get me out of his plating.”_

_“I see. I’m… sorry to hear that.” Prowl’s mention of Chromedome and Optimus prompted me to take down a note; their relationship is something I would like to explore further in a future session. “But I can assure you that nobody on the _Lost Light_ would have any ulterior motive in trying to become your friend.”_

_He scoffed again. “Did you not hear me say earlier that everybody on this ship hates my fuel tanks right now? Once again, the odds of anyone on this ship wanting a genuine friendship with me are highly unlikely.”_

_“How will you know that if you keep avoiding everyone?”_

_Prowl was quiet. I pressed on. “I understand that, given your past experiences, you’re probably very hesitant to try striking up a friendship again. But you need to give it another try. You can’t spend your whole life trying to avoid a repeat of your past relationships by just not having any more relationships. You can’t be lonely forever, Prowl._

_“Tell you what- tomorrow afternoon, Bluestreak is unveiling a new creation of his at Swerve’s. Everyone is invited. I’m going to be there, and I’d like it if you came with me.”_

_“Doesn’t your profession prevent you from doing things like that with your patients?”_

_“Oh, don’t worry, it won’t be like that. The main purpose of you being there is to have an opportunity to interact with the other bots on board. A social event like this will be the perfect opportunity for you to break out of your shell a little, as it were. You don’t even have to talk to everyone there; just one or two bots will do. And when you’re done, we’ll come back here, and you can tell me all about it.”_

_Prowl was quiet again for a moment; I could tell he was considering the offer._

_What I neglected to mention in my invitation is that the Constructicons are going to be there. I am interested in observing his interactions and attitude toward them firsthand, for research during future sessions. His attendance of the event will be good for him, and educational for me._

_“… Fine.”_

_I smiled. “Very good.”_

~

The next day, Prowl shuffled his way to Swerve’s, where he was once again confronted by the proprietor’s big golden bouncer. Despite having no optics, the Legislator seemed to give him an angry glare, no doubt remembering the firefight that had almost broken out last time they had met. The black-and-white bot raised his hands sullenly, showing that he had no intention of bringing or using any weapons in the bar in an attempt to placate the Legislator. It apparently worked, because the large golden bot moved aside to allow Prowl entrance.

It still didn’t feel right having one of Tyrest’s cronies aboard, no matter how peaceful everyone made it out to be.

Swerve’s was packed full of all manner of colorful bots. Some were gathered around the tables and booths (now that it wasn’t dark, Prowl could see that Swerve had made good on his intent to bolt them all down), some were bunched up along the bar, and some were sitting on the floor. He could pick out several familiar faces in the crowd- there was Nightbeat; there at the bar was Hosehead, whom he had worked with during the Iacon bombings on Cybertron a while ago; over there in the corner was Brainstorm; Broadside was taking up a whole booth by himself…

And there, sitting at a table all by himself, was a familiar lanky orange bot, who waved at him.

Shoving through the crowd and pointedly ignoring the five familiar green-and-purple lumps holed up on the floor close by, Prowl took a seat next to Rung. “Glad to see you could make it,” the psychiatrist said cheerfully. He slid a small glass over. “You’ll forgive me if I picked a drink for you, but I didn’t know what you liked.”

Prowl grunted, took note of the disassembled model spaceship on the table, and tasted the familiar mercury notes of a Happy Rain.

Up near the bar was a large something covered by a sheet. Bluestreak- who, in the bright light of the bar, appeared more silver than blue- was standing next to it and talking to Hoist; he seemed to be trying to reassure his friend about something. After several more minutes, the blue bot turned his attention to the gathered crowd, who gradually fell silent.

“Gentlemen!” he called enthusiastically.

“And lady!” piped up an unfamiliar purple bot.

“And lady,” Bluestreak conceded. “You can all thank Hoist for what I’m about to unveil.”

“Quit putting me on that pedestal,” protested Hoist.

Bluestreak continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “What I’m about to unveil- what’s beneath this sheet- is perhaps the greatest scientific advancement ever made on the _Lost Light_, born from a combination of Brainstorm’s elbow grease, and my desire to educate poor little Hoist here about the wonders of off-world music.”

“Dude, seriously. Quit.”

“So as your ship’s new entertainment officer, my first order of business it to give you all…” He tore the sheet off. “… This!”

Most of the crowd ooh’ed and ahh’ed. Not Prowl. He was disappointed.

Bluestreak went on to explain what it was and how it worked, but Prowl didn’t need to listen. He knew how a jukebox worked; he had come across many during his time on Earth. Rather strange devices they were, built to hold an array of music much larger than their size let on. He had no personal care for them, for as he had told Rung, up until recently he had been occupied with more important things. In fact, the only real feeling he had toward Bluestreak’s new jukebox was disdain- such a device didn’t need this amount of hullabaloo over it. He couldn’t believe that this “event” had been okayed.

“What a fascinating contraption!” said Rung.

“I’ve seen better,” said Prowl.

“Oh, come on, Prowl,” said Rung as Hoist nervously pressed a button on the jukebox. “Even if you’ve seen better, you have to admit it’s at least a little interesting.”

“It’s a giant music player. What could possibly be so interesting about it?”

“I suppose it’s not necessarily the music player itself that’s interesting, but rather the array of music it plays. Like this, playing right now.” He paused, allowing Prowl to get an audial full of a familiar brooding, electronica-heavy tune. “I’ve never heard anything like this before; it’s so different from Cybertronian music.”

“It’s okay, I guess.”

Rung smiled gently and clapped his hands once. “Now then. You and I could sit here talking about whether or not this jukebox is interesting, but you still have something you told me you were going to do.”

Right. Sighing, Prowl drained the rest of his Happy Rain and departed, leaving Rung to finish building his model spaceship while he searched for some… ugh… _socialization_.

Milling awkwardly through the crowd, he failed for the most part to catch anyone’s optic, probably due to the shenanigans going on under the bar’s speakers. Nightbeat was crawling on all fours to investigate under the tables; Hosehead was playing cards with Sky High; Brainstorm was having an argument with Perceptor over something; Broadside had gotten himself stuck in the booth…

“Hey, chief! Over here!”

Getaway’s distinct navy hand rose over the sea of heads, as the bot it was attached to invited Prowl to come and sit at a booth with him. After casting a look at Rung, who nodded enthusiastically in approval, the black-and-white bot reluctantly accepted the invitation. Atomizer was also at the booth, lining up a series of Berserker Buttons- shot glasses containing thrice-distilled engex over superheated zirconium- for them to drink. He waved happily.

“That music player whatchamacallit is a pretty nifty thing, huh?” Getaway asked as Prowl eased into the booth. 

“It’s alright.”

“Beats having to listen to the Empyrean Suite again, that’s for sure,” piped up Atomizer.

“Is that the usual music they play in here?”

Getaway nodded. “Swerve played it _all the time_ after the whole Luna 1 incident. It’s why I haven’t been able to get Skids in here for a drink for ages; he _hates_ the song. To be honest, I kinda hate it too, now it’s been overplayed to the Pit.”

The three bots each grabbed a Berserker Button and threw them back (how Getaway and Atomizer did it, with them having mouthplates instead of mouths, Prowl couldn’t tell). The flavor of the drink was strong, and oddly spicy. Prowl made a face- it wasn’t to his personal taste… and yet he found himself reaching for another one.

“Speaking of Skids,” the colorful bot continued, “he and I were talking about you the other day. He still doesn’t really remember you that well, ‘cos, you know, amnesia and that, but I told him that us three should start getting together again, like I told you, and he said he’d be up for it. Just as long as there’s no more shooting broken bots with memory bullets, eh?” He smiled (as much as he could) at the recollection of the bungled mission, a smile which Prowl did not return. “But yeah, he and I’d be totally down for getting a little Spec-Ops branch up and running around here. And speaking of _that_…” He tossed another Berserker Button back. “How’s Spec-Ops been while I was away? What’cha been up to?”

“Special Operations was disbanded in the face of… more pressing matters,” said Prowl. He didn’t want to talk about the mess on Cybertron before the Shockwave calamity.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Getaway leaned over the table and cushioned his chin with his arms. “Not gonna lie, I kinda miss being part of something where a sane bot was in charge, even if things went sideways a lot.” He trailed off mumbling.

Prowl fingered his empty shot glasses, silently echoing Getaway’s sentiment. As the music changed, he found himself once again appreciating the nice change of pace that Getaway had offered. Almost all of the other bots on the _Lost Light_ either were not fond of him at best, or went out of their way to dislike and exclude him at worst. Getaway was, so far, the only one to be actually _nice_ to him, and the only one to take a genuine, non-professional interest in him, unlike Rung, who was only doing his job.

His basic nature still did not want to trust Getaway’s niceness, but he had to admit, it was… well, nice.

He hadn’t had the need to use that word as a descriptor for a very, _very_ long time.

“A toast,” said Getaway, raising one of the last Berserker Buttons. “To an eventual Spec-Ops reunion, and the restoration of sanity that it’ll bring.”

“Hear, hear!” cheered Atomizer.

Reluctantly, Prowl nodded agreement, and the three clinked their glasses together and tossed them back one last time. He couldn’t see it, but Rung was taking notes and beaming.

The three bots sat in reasonably companionable silence for a short while, letting the drinks take effect while some new music played throughout Swerve’s…

That silence was interrupted with a loud crash and tinkling of broken glass as Mixmaster fell backward into their table, severely bending it.

“Oh hi, Prowl!” said the mixing truck, getting up and rubbing his head as if nothing had happened.

Prowl could feel his death glare surfacing again. “What in the frag are you doing?” he growled.

“I tried mixing mine and Bonecrusher’s drinks to see how it’d taste! Apparently Valium does _not_ mix well with a Hyperspace Mallet.” Mixmaster gestured to the scorch marks all over his front; the implication was that his mixture had exploded. This implication was turned into fact as Prowl observed a small crater where the Constructicons had been sitting; the other four were similarly covered in residue from the small explosion.

“Hi, Prowl!” said Scavenger. “I didn’t know you were coming, otherwise I’d have saved you a seat! How’s the party?”

Prowl’s internal readouts issued him a warning that his energon was heating up to a dangerous degree, a warning which he dutifully ignored as he rose from his ruined seat. “It _was_ fine,” he said, trying and slowly failing to keep the rage out of his voice. It reached a fever pitch. “It was fine, until _you lot_ went and interrupted me with your **_fragging nonsense again, you-_**”

~

_Session 0019_

_“I don’t believe I’ve heard _half_ of those swear words before.”_

_Prowl and I were back in my office, almost immediately following the borderline disaster that had broken out at the party at Swerve’s. Rodimus had, of course, severely reprimanded him in private. I try not to handle poor situations with anger, but it upsets me to say that I was not as calm as I should have been._

_“I’m sorry.” I could tell that he wasn’t._

_“You shouted at the Constructicons in the middle of a party and threw a table at them.”_

_“A table that _they_ destroyed.”_

_“I don’t care _who_ destroyed the table. Not only did your actions bring the whole party down, turning everyone’s attention to you when the party wasn’t even about you, but you treated the Constructicons _deplorably_. I’d expect that kind of behavior from _Galvatron_, not you. It will take more than just a simple ‘I’m sorry’ if you want any chance of making amends.”_

_“And why should I make amends?”_

_“Did you not just hear me say that you treated the Constructicons deplorably?”_

_He sat up on the berth, his posture now defensive. “How else am I supposed to treat them?” he asked._

_“With at least a little respect! They’re your crewmates now; they deserve at least that much!”_

_“You already know that I refuse to consider them my crewmates. You already know how I feel about them!”_

_“And I’m sorry you feel that way, truly I am. But frankly, you need to _get over yourself_. For all that you’ve told me about not having healthy relationships, about how you think nobody wants a genuine friendship with you, you certainly don’t act in a manner conducive to _any_ of that happening. Who would want to be friends with someone who throws tables and swears at other bots at the slightest provocation? How would a healthy relationship form with you acting that way?”_

_“I don’t want a healthy relationship with the Constructicons! I don’t want any sort of relationship with them, not after what they’ve put me through!”_

_“But the Constructicons want a relationship with you!”_

_“Their wants are misplaced.”_

_“I imagine that they believe the same now. But don’t you see? By behaving the way you are, you’re throwing away the chance to have what you haven’t before.”_

_“And what’s that?”_

_“_Friends_. Genuine, honest-to-Primus friends.”_

_Prowl scoffed. “If I’m going to make friends, which I don’t want to do if you’re going to pressure me into doing it, I’d much rather it be with sensible bots like Getaway.”_

_“Yes. I saw that you and him were having a nice time before your incident. You’re going to have to make amends with him, too; your behavior clearly ruined that nice time.”_

_“Fine.”_

_“I’m serious, Prowl. This is _non-negotiable_; I want you- and I imagine Rodimus does, too- to make it up to the people you’ve hurt by acting up today, because that’s what you did. You hurt them. Getaway, Bluestreak, Hoist, Swerve, and especially the Constructicons.”_

_“Rodimus doesn’t want that, for the record. He didn’t tell me what he wanted, he just called me a-”_

_“Please mind your language.” He fell silent._

_I continued. “This is part of coming out of your shell, Prowl. And it’s part of what you need to do if you want any chance of coming into good standing with Rodimus or Optimus again. You made a mistake; you need to own up to it and try to make it right. And if you can’t, well, you have to learn to accept the consequences.”_

_“Fine.”_

_“And another thing- _give the Constructicons a chance_. I know you don’t want to, I know how you feel about them. But they want to change. They’re trying to. And you need to give them the benefit of the doubt. Do what I suggested the other day, and ask them why they’re so interested in you, if you doubt their genuineness. But don’t throw any more tables at them. Okay? Will you do that, Prowl?”_

_He was quiet._

_“If not for me, will you do it for yourself?”_

~

“I think we made Prowl mad,” said Mixmaster as Long Haul scrubbed the scorch marks off his plating.

“Oh, do you?” said the tall Constructicon. “You should know better than to try your mad science in the middle of a party.”

“No, it’s not just- _mmph_\- hey, get that away from my mouthplate! It’s not just the mad science, I don’t think. I think it’s because we kinda interrupted him while he was- _mmph_\- Long Haul, seriously!”

“Hold still; you’ve still got splatters on your chin.”

“We interrupted him while he was hanging out with someone else, and he obviously didn’t like that.”

“But why would he want to hang out with someone else?” asked Bonecrusher, giving himself the most rudimentary of dust-offs. “We’re _awesome_ to hang out with!”

“Tell that to my head,” Scavenger sobbed, holding his dome; it had taken the brunt of the table Prowl had thrown at them.

Sitting back on his heels, Long Haul sighed. “I think Mixmaster’s got it right. We _have_ been trying to hang out with Prowl a lot lately. Maybe he thinks that we’re suffocating him, and him throwing the table was him reaching… I don’t know, a _tipping point_. Maybe we should give him some space.”

“_Megatron_ never threw tables at us…”

“If we quit hanging out with Prowl, then who will we hang out with?” Hook asked. “No offense, but hanging out with you dorks gets kinda old sometimes. And nobody around here really likes us that much.”

“Then we make them start to like us,” said Long Haul. “We widen our horizons, find one or two bots we have something in common with, and work our way up from there. And don’t be overbearing about it, ‘cos that’s what got Prowl mad at us in the first place. Hook, I’m looking at you.”

“I’m not overbearing!”

“You harassed Prowl about reading _The Currents of Spade_ for two days.”

“… Fair point.”

“I’m still going to hang out with Prowl,” said Scavenger.

“But he threw a table at you!” said Mixmaster.

“I know!” the smallest Constructicon cried. “But… you know, for all his yelling at us and throwing stuff at us, he _did_ help save my life. And he still treats us better than Megatron ever did. I… I feel like I owe him. I want to do something nice for him. Maybe if I do that, I can… I don’t know, show him that we’re not as bad as he thinks we are.” His face fell, and he seemed on the verge of crying. “I just… I just want him to like us.”

“Oh, Scavenger,” soothed Long Haul, putting a gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder. “That’s really sweet of you. I know you want him to like us, I really do. But right now, I think the nicest thing you can do for him…

“Is to leave him alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you didn't think i was going to forget about this plot point, did you?  
arriving at the eleventh hour is this next chapter. sorry it's so late, i had a lot of work- and school-related things to take care of. it's also another filler chapter, but i wanted to revisit prowl's daily sessions with rung, which i feel i've neglected over the past few chapters. once again framing it within the context of rung's case notes, i had a lot of fun exploring more of the way prowl thinks about stuff, developing his relationship with getaway introduced last chapter, and giving the constructicons a reason to begin branching off and making other friends.  
did i shamelessly stick a line from crimsonseekers' fic in here as a tribute to my inspiration? yes. was it unnecessary? probably. was it worth it? absolutely. (hi again crimsonseekers please don't be mad at me)  
the song bluestreak makes hoist play, and the song prowl hears, is [Welcome to the Machine](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=tBvAxSx0nAM) because now hoist can know what pink floyd is  
up next: slaughterhouse


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl and Scavenger get stuck inside Rodimus' head.

The Constructicons’ ability to keep out of Prowl’s plating was put to the test a week or so later, when disaster struck.

“_I repeat, _this is not a drill_,_” the voice of Megatron sounded over the ship’s intercom, somehow still audible over the alarms and the sounds of a lot of bots clamoring to get the Pit out of there. “_The _Lost Light_ is _disintegrating_. Proceed in an orderly fashion to Shuttle Bay 1 and await further orders._”

The Constructicons must not have heard that last part, because they were panicking. Shoving their way past a group of equally panicked Autobots, the green-and-purple bots charged their way in what they hoped was the direction of Shuttle Bay 1. They hoped it was the way to go, because it was the way a lot of other bots were going. (“Don’t leave me behind!” cried Scavenger; his little legs couldn’t carry him as fast as the others.)

“_En route to the shuttle bay you may discover that portions of the ship are missing._” They certainly discovered so a few seconds later- Bonecrusher almost ran straight through an absent patch of hull, but was reeled back in by Mixmaster at the last second. “_You may even encounter open space._” They certainly encountered that, too- the group they were following had to double back and find another route, because the section of the ship they were traveling through had abruptly ended in front of them. “_It seems any protection from the vacuum outside is only temporary, as if- **KZZK!**_”

~

Prowl had been brooding over his forbidden file when the alarms sounded.

Much like the other _Lost Light_ers, he made his way to Shuttle Bay 1, though his rapid approach was less out of panic and more out of anger. He had spent all that time at the beginning of the trip finding safe spaces for him to weather out the next inevitable disaster in, and now the _Lost Light_ was disappearing, leaving _no_ safe spaces for him. All that preparation for nothing.

“Pick a shuttle and _move it_, people! We’ve _practiced_ this!” called Magnus over the noise.

But Prowl _hadn’t_ practiced this. There had been no instances of practicing these procedures at all in the time since takeoff. What was Magnus talking about? Still, Prowl followed the instructions- he picked a shuttle and moved it. The shuttle he picked was one that he could see Nightbeat and Getaway had also picked; his observational abilities had singled them out in the colorful crowd. If he was going to get through this mishap, he was going to do it with the only bots on board that he _didn’t_ dislike.

It wasn’t until too late that he registered exactly what shuttle they were heading for. A garish red affair, it was shaped almost exactly like a certain someone’s noggin. The sheer _narcissism_.

~

The Constructicons milled through the crowd in Shuttle Bay 1, shoving bots aside as they tried to make their way into one of the colorful shuttles. They picked a chunky blue one, labeled the _Turben_, and were just about to board alongside a familiar red chevron when Long Haul made them stop. “Head count!” he shouted. “One… two… three…” He tapped Bonecrusher’s, Mixmaster’s, and Hook’s heads in quick succession, before tapping his own. “And mine makes four… _waitaminute_.”

Scavenger was not among them. Somewhere in the crowd, they must have gotten separated.

Long Haul began to panic. He had already lost the little one once already, and he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he lost him again, possibly forever, in this crisis. “Scavenger!” he called as loud as he could. “_Scavenger!_” He began to go against the current of bots, shoving them aside again in search of Scavenger. He couldn’t see the small Constructicon in the sea of taller bots, but he did see another familiar red chevron bobbing over several heads and decided to break his promise to leave that chevron alone.

“Prowl!” he called, trying to get their sixth’s attention so he could plead for help.

Sure enough, as soon as he noticed Long Haul, Prowl protested angrily. “What are you doing?!” he yelled, pointing in the direction they had all come from; the _Lost Light_ was, ever rapidly, disappearing in bits and pieces. “The ship’s vanishing faster! Get on a shuttle and _get out of here!_”

Long Haul’s protective panic overrode his surprise at the fact that… Prowl was actually ordering him to get to safety. “No, wait! Scavenger’s still lost!” he shouted, trying and failing to break free from the other three Constructicons’ grips as they pulled him into the _Turben_. “Scavenger! **_Scavenger!!_**”

The ramp shut closed on his last cry.

~

Scavenger was in full-on panic mode. His optical gauze started to overheat- a sure sign that he was about to cry- as he whipped around in circles, trying to spot one of his brothers in the crowd. “Long Haul! Hook! Boney! _Anyone!_” he cried. But his words were lost under Ultra Magnus’ booming command to pick a shuttle, and he was so short he couldn’t see over the top of anyone’s head.

He thought he could hear someone call his name. “Long Haul?!” It sounded again, but as he futilely tried to push through to the head of the pack, the sound was cut short. “_Long Haul!!_”

He listened, but no one called out his name again.

He was alone.

Until a familiar pair of doors passed him.

If he couldn’t find the others, then he’d follow the only other bot he was really familiar with. Scavenger slipped his way behind Prowl as the two of them and a small group of other bots- none of whom were the other Constructicons- clambered into a round red shuttle, which quickly took off. He could feel a soft tingling bloom in his frame- an indicator from the gestalt bond that its components were spread out rather far. The tingling would have been more intense if one of them were hurt. He was relieved; this meant that his brothers were okay. Far away, but okay.

(Unbeknownst to him, Long Haul felt the same soft tingling at the same time. The tall bot let out a vent he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. Scavenger was safe.)

Hands to the rear window, he watched a small fleet of shuttlecraft emerge and fan out from the rapidly shrinking _Lost Light_… which promptly vanished, leaving only a slowly drifting clump of debris in its place.

Scavenger let the optical gauze flow.

~

The _Lost Light_ was gone, and Prowl didn’t know how exactly to feel about that. On the one hand, no more _Lost Light_ meant there was now no place for foolish antics to occur and cost him recharge at night, and no place for Rodimus to run into the ground with his horrendous captaincy. On the other, he was now stuck drifting in open space, cramped in- oh Primus, were the other bots calling it the _Rodpod?_\- with many unfamiliar bots and… _Megatron_.

The black-and-white bot’s brows beetled; in the chaos of evacuating, he hadn’t noticed that he had boarded the same shuttle that Megatron had. His struts ached to lay into the co-captain as revenge for slamming him against the wall, and for a litany of other things that deserved it, but he opted not to. Now was not the time, nor the place for revenge. That would come later. (Or was the feeling in his struts another gestalt bond tingle?)

Instead, he holed himself up in a corner near the back of the… _Rodpod_… next to Getaway and Nightbeat. Nightbeat waved, but Getaway’s brow quirked.

“Uh, Prowl? You’ve got something on your arm there.”

Turning his gaze to follow Getaway’s finger, Prowl was surprised to find Scavenger trying to cling to him, sniffling and wailing softly in distress. He jerked his arm away in shock. “What in the Pit are you doing here?” he asked.

“I lost the others!” the smallest Constructicon cried. “We got separated in the crowd, and I couldn’t find them again.” Was wanting to find Scavenger the reason Long Haul had tried to approach him, Prowl wondered? “You were the only other bot I recognized, so when I saw you push past me, I just followed you here. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah? Well, you should be. You keep getting lost, and one of these days none of us are going to be able to find you again,” Prowl said.

“It’s not like I _try_ to get lost on purpose…” mumbled Scavenger.

Prowl turned his head away. It wasn’t hard for him to want to theorize that maybe Scavenger was _making the whole story up_ just so he could have an excuse to further invade his personal space; since the incident at Bluestreak’s party, Scavenger had pointedly ignored Prowl’s desire to be _left alone_. But what was he going to do about it now? Chucking the little green bot out of the Rodpod would open up a vacuum that would suck all of the occupants out into open space. And just up and shooting him with an acid pellet would not only not win him any more points with either co-captain, it would also risk burning a hole in the shuttle, again risking exposure to open space.

Like it or not- which he _immensely didn’t_\- he was stuck with Scavenger for now.

“Go sit over there,” Prowl commanded, pointing to the corner opposite the one he, Getaway, and Nightbeat were sitting in. Scavenger obeyed, still sniffling a little. He couldn’t see it, but Getaway’s expression changed to one of… almost _approval_.

“Y’know,” said the colorful bot, leaning back and cushioning his head with his arms, “I’m surprised they gave Magnus the ‘Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord’ job and not you. You’ve got the whole ‘_point-and-give-instruction_’ shtick down _way_ better than him.” Prowl’s natural distrustfulness led him to believe that Getaway was trying to butter him up; all he succeeded in doing was lubricating him off just a little more.

“Don’t flatter me,” he said, crossing his arms.

As he sat sullenly, he paid vague attention to the other shenanigans going on in the Rodpod. A tall blue boatformer was recounting the origins of the _Lost Light_ to an unfamiliar purple female bot, explaining how Drift had named it after the religious festival he had procured the ship at. Prowl scoffed; he wouldn’t have expected anything less from the turncoat.

“Riptide, please,” he heard Megatron say, “I think our time would be more profitably spent if, rather than reminiscing, we focus on the _here and now_. You Autobots are _obsessed_ with the past.” Prowl took umbrage to the co-captain’s use of “you Autobots-” what was the whole fuss about abandoning Decepticonism for, then, if he still wasn’t going to acknowledge his side-switching?- and it turned out that he wasn’t the only one.

A quiet quip from Swerve (which wasn’t very quiet at all, it was actually a very _loud_ whisper) drew his optic over to the console where the red minibot and Skids were loitering, trying to look busy. Skids registered Prowl’s gaze, and the pair looked at each other for a few seconds before turning their optics elsewhere.

Prowl remembered Skids, even though Skids didn’t remember him. He remembered that Skids had joined Special Operations after the fall of the Grindcore gulag, an effort that Prowl himself had spearheaded. The blue bot was a good worker and a fast learner, able to keep up with the myriad of information that headquarters- and thus, he and Prowl- had to process on a daily basis. But, as with Getaway, he had held no strong feelings toward Skids’ failure to come back to headquarters after the Tyrest disaster; he had simply assumed that he’d make his way to the Duobots, and business with him would proceed as usual. When business with him didn’t proceed, he had moved on.

Another bot- Ammo, whose creation for the K’th Kinsere Campaign Prowl had overseen- asked the purple bot to elaborate on her sentiment that the _Lost Light_’s quantum engines were abnormally powerful. And so it was, then, that Prowl found himself learning more about quantum mechanics in a few minutes than he had learned in his millions of years of previous existence.

“Define conceptual heft,” Getaway asked in reference to an unfamiliar term, raising his hand.

“The heaviness of the idea,” replied Nightbeat.

“What? You just said the exact same thing but with different words.”

Not knowing why he was adding to the banter, Prowl cut in with, “And you’ve just defined a definition.”

Getaway looked alternately at Prowl and Nightbeat, managing to look just as outwardly confused without a mouth as a bot with one. “Wow,” he said. “I’m going to die of _smart-aft poisoning_.”

Another few minutes of the purple bot- whose name, Prowl had picked up, was Nautica- explaining the hems and haws of quantum mechanics, including a theory that the _Lost Light_ had essentially _proved itself impossible_, and Prowl was glad for the confusing monotony to break in favor of a head count. They were heading to the lectureworld of Ofsted XVII to rendezvous, and Rodimus had demanded a manifest of the Rodpod’s occupants. Finally, a _sensible_ order from the captain. He found himself agreeing with Megatron’s sentiment that Rodimus was “lazy, petulant, and _pathologically ill-suited_ to command…” and then he found himself disgusted at the notion that he was _agreeing_ with his enemy.

Prowl shared a venomous glare with Megatron as the latter’s finger landed on him. The venom even extended to Megatron’s voice as he reported, “And Prowl makes twenty.”

“Where’s the _rest_ of your posse, huh?” he heard Chromedome snipe at him.

“I told you, don’t call them that,” Prowl growled.

Thankfully, Chromedome did not launch another barb, instead opting to talk with Highbrow about how Ofsted XVII was now classified as a smartplanetTM after the lectureworld takeover by Curricula. Prowl kept to himself during this exchange, as well as the others going on around him…

And then the lights went out.

When they came back on, someone named Crosscut had disappeared, and a fuss had broken out about it. Megatron stood at the center of it, naturally, and a little white bot had a blaster pointed at him. Prowl found himself readying one of his acid pellet wrist launchers and joining the fray, leveling it as best he could at the spot between the co-captain’s optics. (He kicked Scavenger away as the latter tried to cling to him in fear.)

“How come he’s even allowed to be here?” the little white bot was shouting. “Did you throw the world’s most successful _forgive and forget party?_” Prowl found that he rather liked that sentiment.

“Trust me, Tailgate, no one will ever forget what Megatron did- but what exactly do you think he’s just done? Why point a gun at him now?” asked Ratchet, trying to defuse the situation alongside another purple bot- Cyclonus.

“Because an Autobot just died and _he’s got form_.”

“No, an Autobot just _disappeared-_”

“Died, disappeared, it doesn’t matter,” said Prowl. “What _does_ matter is that one of us is gone, and considering his track record, Megatron is the most likely suspect. I suggest we lock him in the engine room- I’m assuming we have an engine room- until we’ve worked out what just happened to Crosscut.”

Megatron responded to the suggestion by pointing a blaster of his own in between Prowl’s optics. He was reminded of that one time he was tasked with rooting out Decepticon gun-runners with Optimus back in the early days of the war. “No one’s locking me up,” said Megatron. “Not again. Not without reason.”

“I think pulling a gun on your own ‘crew’ is a _pretty good reason_,” shot back Prowl.

The boatformer pulled out his own blaster and joined Prowl and Tailgate in aiming it at Megatron. Cyclonus stepped in front of the co-captain and raised his talons. “A moment of pause, please, before this escalates,” he said.

To everyone’s surprise, Scavenger jumped out of his corner and rushed in between Prowl and Megatron’s gun, arms spread wide. “Don’t shoot Prowl!” he said. “If you do, I’ll… I’ll _hurt you!_”

Megatron scoffed. “I’d like to see you _try_.”

“_There’s_ a surprise! The pseudo-Decepticon protects the ex-Decepticon, and the other ex protects the other pseudo!” That came from Huffer, a construction bot that Prowl was vaguely familiar with. “I say we lock all _four_ of ‘em up in the engine room… _do_ we have an engine room?” Huffer drew a pair of pistols and added them to the Sistexican standoff, pointing his left one at Prowl and his right one at Cyclonus.

The black-and-white bot was taken aback, and very angry; how _dare_ this bot accuse him of having any willing Decepticon affiliation? This was enough for him to raise his other acid pellet wrist launcher at the goggled orange bot.

The next few events were a blur. There was even more yelling. There was a larger commotion on the starboard side of the Rodpod. The lights went out again. There were gunshots. The lights came on again. Scavenger was curled in a terrified squat, clutching his head. And…

“At ease, everyone. I’ve got him. He’s unconscious,” said Megatron, holding in one hand the limp body of-

“What’s _Ravage_ doing here?” asked Hound.

“I don’t know,” said Megatron.

“Has he been here the whole time? Was he on the _Lost Light_?”

“_I don’t know._”

“I do,” said Prowl. “In order, the answers are sneaking about, probably, and yes. Megatron, let me see him.”

“No.”

“That cat of yours maimed and abducted a member of the gestalt that _you_ made me responsible for-” he pointed down at Scavenger- “and I want to know exactly why. _Let me see him._”

“I said _no_. If you want an interrogation, you’ll have to make do with your little green protector here,” Megatron smirked, pushing Scavenger with his foot and causing him to fall over. Prowl glared more venom, but with everyone’s optics seeming to be on him, he took the suggestion and hauled Scavenger back over to their corner. (Meanwhile, Getaway snuggled up to Tailgate to comfort him from Cyclonus’ chastisement.) He couldn’t help but notice, however, that Megatron seemed to hold Ravage’s hand (paw?) in a suspicious manner.

“Get up,” he said, nudging Scavenger with his foot softer than Megatron had. “You’re not shot, idiot. The standoff’s over.” As the smallest Constructicon uncurled himself from his ball, Prowl continued, since there was now nobody stopping him from asking what had happened on the night of the mystery. "Ravage just decided to make his grand reappearance. What was it that he wanted with you than night; why did he kidnap you?”

“Huh? Oh. He told me that the others and I had a choice to make, about whether or not we were serious about leaving the Decepticons behind. We… didn’t get to talk much beyond that.”

“Have you made your choice yet?”

“… No. Not yet. He told me to think about it, and that… that he hoped I’d make the right one.”

“So do I.” In Prowl’s mind, the right choice was that Scavenger and the other Constructicons would go back to being Decepticons, so that he could have a legitimate reason to continue hating them and Rung would stop telling him to be nice to them. He looked back into the crowd to avoid the green bot’s gaze of… something positive. He couldn’t tell, but he didn’t like it, as per usual.

“Prowl!” Nightbeat called suddenly, standing in front of a board in the middle of the Rodpod. “Forged or constructed cold?”

Prowl was once again taken aback. “Well, that’s awfully forward of you.”

“More of us have disappeared,” the blue-and-yellow bot said, “and I’m thinking that maybe there’s a pattern to it. Maybe this… this _phenomenon_, we’ll call it, is targeting one of the two creation types. And so far, it’s looking increasingly like it’s forged bots vanishing. I’m constructed cold, and I’m still here; Getaway, Riptide, and Ammo are M.T.O’s, and _they’re_ still here; so what are _you?_”

Prowl could indeed see that several more of the Rodpod’s occupants had vanished, Chromedome among them. The part of him that still held grudges was glad that the mnemosurgeon was not around to hurl insults at him anymore, and he felt a dark smirk start to break out. Before he could answer Nightbeat’s question, however, Nautica cut him off with a statement directed at Megatron.

“It’s strange, isn’t it,” she said. “So many Autobots owe their _lives_ to you. Without your war, they wouldn’t be here.”

“It’s true,” added Ammo. “If you hadn’t ordered the attack on K’th Kinsere, High Command wouldn’t have sent for reinforcements and the prenatals wouldn’t have defrosted this spark and put it in this body.”

“Hey, don’t leave High Command without any credit,” said Getaway, clapping Prowl on the shoulder. “From what I’ve heard, Prowl here oversaw almost _all_ of the M.T.O construction during the early war campaigns. And I just barely remember that he oversaw _mine_.”

The optics of the crowd were fixed expectantly on Prowl. He was clearly supposed to say _something_, elaborate on Getaway’s statement. Somewhat awkwardly, he said, “I guess I oversaw so many cold constructions because I wanted it to be _done right_. Most of the technicians were forged, so it was up to someone with experience to teach them how it was done.”

Nightbeat pinched his chin. “So that means-”

“Yep. I’m constructed cold. First wave. But I have to torpedo your theory- _creation type’s got nothing to do with it_. If only forged bots are being taken, then why is _Chromedome_ gone?”

“I thought he was forged?”

“Nope,” said Ratchet. “And I was forged- even my replacement hands were forged- and I’ve not yet been taken.” He stood up to stretch, his joints creaking audibly. “I’ve also read everyone’s med-specs and personal files, and with a couple of exceptions… I know exactly who was _born _and who was _built._” The old medic took the board’s stylus from Nightbeat and jotted down the creation statuses of each of the twenty bots who had boarded the Rodpod, as well as who among them had vanished. (Prowl was surprised to find out that Scavenger was _also_ constructed cold.)

Clearly distraught that his theory had been torpedoed, Nightbeat leaned against a chair and started muttering to himself. Prowl remained squatting in his corner, content to leave the blue-and-yellow bot alone and not offer any help for his mystery. A tug at his right door brought his attention from his own thoughts back to Scavenger. He glowered.

“Prowl… are _you_ gonna disappear? Am _I_ gonna disappear?”

“I wish you would.” He looked away, but he could still feel the Constructicon’s visor stuck on him.

“Hey Riptide,” he heard Ammo ask the boatformer, “remember the ten-step program?”

“Ten? It was down to _eight_ by the time I came online.”

“I don’t remember reading about a ten-step program,” Nautica said.

Getaway chuckled sarcastically. “Don’t get too excited. It was just a series of _stimulus_ tests and _life exams_ that M.T.O’s had to go pass before they could be declared ‘_world-ready_.’ The final few steps focused on cultural literacy- Cybertronian philosophy, art, poetry- words and feelings and fluff.”

Prowl could feel heat building in his face as Skids launched into a speech. “In the end,” the blue bot said, “High Command decided they wanted their new troops to fight, not study, so they reduced the steps from ten to eight to three. _Three steps_, Nautica- ‘from _thaw to war_ in under an hour.’” Prowl couldn’t help but notice that Skids’ gaze drifted slowly from Nautica to him during the course of his spiel. “Because who cares whether or not a _warborn knockoff_ with a three-minute life expectancy can quote _Dominus Ambus_ or notate the _Grand Celestial Melody?_ So long as he can assemble a path-blaster with his brand-new eyes closed, everyone's happy. That's _sarcasm_, by the way. I dabble.”

Nautica had followed Skids’ shifting gaze, and now both of them looked at Prowl with disapproval. The implication was clear- they believed that _he_\- not High Command in general, he specifically- was responsible for the reduction of steps in the M.T.O program.

And he was, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

He let them have a debate about faith, and then the lights flickered off and on again. Four more bots had vanished, and Tailgate had begun freaking out again. Scavenger decided to join him. (“Oh Primus, I don’t want to disappear!”)

“Scavenger, get a hold of yourself!” Prowl commanded, tired of the little green bot annoying him. He smacked him across his rough approximation of a face, causing him to fall silent. “And quit your staring at me!”

“But… but I _wasn’t_ this time…”

“Then why do I still feel like I’m being stared at?”

“Because… I’m staring at you now?”

“No, I feel it too,” said Nightbeat, straightening himself up from where he had hunched over to mess with Cyclonus’ abandoned sword. He, and the rest of them, turned to look out of the Rodpod’s window… and gazed at a giant brown eye that was gazing back at them.

“Why do you all look so tiny?” a familiar voice boomed, causing Prowl to clamp his hands over his audials. “Oh. Bear with me; I think I need to rescale…” The giant eye began to shrink, revealing that it was part of a giant face that also began to shrink, until an almost perfect facsimile projection of a human woman stood among the crowd of bots. “There.”

“I know you,” said Megatron to the projection.

“Of course you do,” said the woman. “I’m _Ultra Magnus_. Unless you’re referring to my holomatter avatar.”

“You’re a hologram?”

“Solid light. My shuttle’s nearby- close enough, finally, for me to reach you by remote projection.”

“What shuttle?” Prowl heard Tailgate say quietly, peeking out the window again white standing on a crate next to Scavenger.

“Magnus, what’s going on?” asked Prowl, shunting Megatron aside, much to the co-captain’s annoyance.

“All I know is that I’m the only one left on the _Leading Light_. Everyone else has disappeared.”

“It’s happening here, too,” said Megatron.

“But it’s not just people- the shuttles are disappearing too. The _Leading Light_ and the Rodpod are the only two left.”

“What _Leading Light?_” asked Scavenger. “I can’t see your shuttle anywhere, Magnus.”

And then Ultra Magnus’ holomatter avatar fizzled out with a wink.

“Okay, that’s the _final straw_. Ratchet!” called Nightbeat angrily. “You’ve seen everyone’s files. Take everything you about the Autobots who boarded this ship and _write it down_. _Everything_, doc- spark type, religion, past affiliations, conjunx endurae, health scares, _whatever_. Somewhere in there is a pattern that connects the ones who have been taken.”

“But what makes you think the rest of us aren’t going to disappear too, in the end?” asked the old medic.

Nightbeat’s anger grew with every word, until he was shouting and making aggressive, almost obscene gestures. “Now you listen to me- I’m not going _anywhere_ until I’ve worked out what’s happening!”

“Alright, alright.” Several moments later, and with an unsteady hand, Ratchet had added a plethora of information to the notes on each bot he had made earlier, and updated the roster of bots who were no longer there. The gang crowded around the board to view all of the notes, the smaller ones naturally ending up in the back. Through the wall of text, Prowl saw his own notes; they read-

**PROWL- Constructed Cold. Spark type ferrum-positive, ex-Special Operations, mild sociopath.**

The black-and-white bot raised an eyebrow. He didn’t think that he was a sociopath; he preferred to think of himself as having priorities that didn’t necessarily involve taking care of others’ emotions. Close to his notes, he read Scavenger’s-

**SCAVENGER- Constructed Cold. Spark type vitreous-negative, suffers from D.P.D, non-practicing Primalist.**

D.P.D. Dependent personality disorder. That certainly went a long way in explaining why Scavenger was so clingy, but it did little to endear Prowl to him. In fact, it made him _more upset_.

“That’s a lot of information,” said Skids, “but what does it mean?”

“I wanna see!” said Scavenger, trying to shove his way to the front of the small crowd. He pushed Prowl, who fell sideways into Getaway. “I’m sorry!” he squealed.

“You’d better be,” growled Prowl. “I’ve had it up to _here_ with your clinging and your pushing and your whining and your ‘oh Prowl, am I gonna disappear?’ _Of course_ you’re going to disappear! We _all_ are! There’s no pattern to it, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it! So quit sticking to me like I can offer you protection! I can’t! Get over it!” Scavenger seemed to shrink with every word.

Venting somewhat heavily, Prowl turned back to face the board, only to find that once again, every optic was on him. He stared back, but didn’t bother to try and apologize for his behavior. Inside, he knew that the way he acted was not inappropriate, nor was it embarrassing; he was simply dealing with Scavenger’s behavior in a way that was natural to him, and easy for the Constructicon to understand.

He wasn’t wrong in shouting, he insisted to himself.

“Prowl’s right,” said Megatron after the awkward silence. “And so is Ratchet. There’s no pattern. We’re all going to disappear in the end, and to think otherwise is utterly-”

Lights off.

“- delusional.”

Lights on.

“So long, Swerve,” said Skids. “You too, Tailgate. Everyone else accounted for?”

“Not quite,” said Nightbeat, crouching to investigate something on the floor. “Ratchet’s left his hands behind- and they seem to have changed color…”

“Technically, those are _Pharma’s_ hands,” said Skids, as Nightbeat raised the hands. Prowl was slightly disquieted by the way that the abandoned appendages still clutched the board stylus tightly.

“Oh jeez, the whole Pharma/Delphi thing!” said Riptide excitedly. “Swerve told me all about it during the crewditions. You lot got up to some crazy stuff when you were away.”

“Wait.” Nightbeat stood up suddenly, gesturing for the boatformer to stop talking. “_What_ did you just say?”

“I… said you lot got up to some crazy stuff while you were away.”

“But you were there too- right from the start. You were there when Drift bought the _Lost Light_…”

“I was, yes - and then I offered to go back to get a receipt. Something about the two NAILs made me twitchy.” Riptide launched into a story about how he had discovered that the _Lost Light_’s previous owners were Mortilus-worshiping turbofox thieves who had imprisoned a sparkeater in the ship’s basement (the very same sparkeater, Prowl mused, that must have terrorized the crew shortly after their departure), and the altercation that soon followed. “They beat me up and left me for dead, and by the time I regained consciousness two days later, the _Lost Light _had left. Why are you smiling? I was left behind!”

Throughout Riptide’s story, Nightbeat’s grin slowly spread until it stretched from audial to audial. “You certainly were!” he said. “Left behind then, and left behind now! Ha!”

“What’s the joke?” asked Prowl, crossing his arms.

“_Skids!_”Nightbeat cried instead of answering. “You joined the crew of the _Lost Light _a few hours after they set off, when they set down for repairs. Am I right?”

“Er-” said Skids.

“And _Getaway_\- Rodimus found you on Luna 1.”

“What’s that have to do with anything?” the colorful bot asked, but Nightbeat held up a finger to silence him before continuing.

“Nautica- you met the crew on _Hydrophena, _hours before they jumped back to Cybertron… and it was on Cybertron that the rest of us- me, Megatron, Riptide, Prowl, Scavenger, and even Ravage- found our way on board. Don’t you see?”

“No,” said Riptide.

“Everyone who disappeared today- everyone we know about- they were part of the original _Lost Light_ crew! And I bet you- I bet you anything- that none of us are at risk. No more disappearances! Mystery solved!” Nightbeat finished, taking a dramatic sweeping bow.

(“So I’m not gonna disappear?” Scavenger asked. His question was dutifully ignored, because its answer was so painfully obvious.)

Prowl began to clap sarcastically. “Oh, well done. Well done indeed.”

“Thank you,” said Nightbeat. “Want to say that again and mean it?”

“You failed,” Megatron rumbled from behind Nightbeat, startling the latter. “You solved the mystery, but only after everyone was taken. You were too slow to save them.”

“Yes, but- at least I worked out what was happening. That has to count for _something_, doesn’t it?” Megatron walked away, leaving the blue-and-yellow bot to deflate in his shadow. “_Doesn’t it?_” Nightbeat asked again, much quieter.

Prowl laid a hand on Nightbeat’s shoulder. The two locked optics. Nightbeat looked like he expected some encouragement, some sort of affirmation…

But Prowl was the _wrong bot_ for that.

“It doesn’t.”

“Megatron?” he heard Nautica call from the Rodpod’s cockpit. “We’re here. Ofsted XVII. We’re approaching orbit.” Prowl abandoned Nightbeat and followed the co-captain up to join her, taking care to keep his distance from both Megatron and Scavenger.

“And yet you sound troubled,” said Megatron. “What is it, Nautica? What’s the matter?”

“We’re not the first to arrive.”

And they certainly weren’t. Prowl’s doors drooped in uncharacteristic nervousness as he lifted his optics from Nautica sitting in the pilot’s seat, to the grisly sight that lay just outside the front window. He was so busy paying attention to it that he forgot to chastise Scavenger for clinging to his leg.

The Rodpod had entered the decimated, broken husk of the _Lost Light_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm about ready to start hating "twenty plus one"  
now we're really starting to hew closer to official MTMTE content. this chapter is literally almost just "twenty plus one but with prowl," but i didn't just want to transcribe the entire chapter with him shoehorned in, just standing around. plenty of dialog was altered to have it come from him, giving him a more active role in the conversations. adding the little tidbits about his involvement with the m.t.o's, him being ex-high command and all, was really fun to do. dipstick and gears were also removed to make room for him and scavenger.  
prowl's little asides with scavenger were really about the only major addition i made, and i feel a little bad that i didn't have as many as i wanted, and that scavenger didn't really do much. don't worry, though, he'll get a lot more page time real soon.  
also yes, i did truncate the timeskip between dark cybertron and MTMTE season 2  
up next: house of horrors


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl gets the gang back together, and Scavenger does something useful.

“Hey, this is _Swerve’s!_”

The Rodpod had precariously settled down in a portion of the _Lost Light_’s ruins that was still vacuum-shielded, no thanks to Riptide’s piloting skills. The room they had landed in was illuminated by both the Rodpod’s headlamps and the eerie red glow of the quantum foam that floated around the wreckage; what the disembarked Autobots could see of it was terrible. Debris was everywhere. Blaster marks pocked the walls. And there were splotches of something on the floor that looked scarily like old energon.

“Are you sure?” asked Nautica.

“It’s been _trashed_,” said Nightbeat.

“Must’ve been a good night,” said Riptide.

“Isn’t it always?” asked Scavenger.

“Yeah, it’s Swerve’s, all right,” said Prowl, scanning the room once again. “Look there- that’s what’s left of the engex tanks. And this-” he patted a piece of debris- “is a piece of one of the built-in tables. Something’s _different_ about it, though. Bluestreak’s jukebox isn’t anywhere to be seen. And the way the whole place is laid out, it looks less like a bar and more like a-”

“_Performance space_,” said Nautica. “Yeah, I noticed that too. A lot of it actually reminded me of the playhouse on _Caminus_.”

“Did you ever-” began Nightbeat.

“Goodness no. Actually go on stage and-? Nooo, no, no, no.”

“Guys, I found what might’ve been playing!” said Scavenger, gesturing them over to a poster in the corner, remarkably still intact among the mess. “But I don’t remember this ever being here…”

“Trust you to know all the details of your second hab-suite,” Prowl muttered as he went to add himself to the cluster of bots gathered around Scavenger’s discovery… which was a poster. The poster simply depicted a red-and-white bot with a frame shape almost identical to Skids’ holding a shovel, along with the words “**How Long Can You Go Without Answers?- INFORMATION CREEP**” in bold letters. All in all, it was a generally unremarkable discovery, but it did prompt a question from Getaway.

“It’s the play _Crosscut_ said he was working on. But how come it’s _written?_ We just saw him disappear…”

“Future ship, remember?” said Nightbeat, raising a pointer finger in the air. “At some point we’re going to find a way to bring everyone back, which is good.”

Skids frowned. “Except we bring them back in time for the ship to be torn apart. Which is-”

“- _Bad_, yes, point taken.”

“Another bad thing,” Prowl cut in. “I don’t think this is a _future ship_, Nightbeat.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Think about it. Swerve’s always been very defensive about his bar, and its status as a bar, right? Or at least, that’s the case from what I’ve seen of him. Why would he allow his place, his… ugh… his ‘_pride and joy_’ to be completely remodeled into a performance space, the exact opposite of a bar?”

“Maybe it was _involuntary_,” said Getaway. “Magnus is always threatening to remove Swerve’s from his possession; maybe at some point in the future he finally _did_, and gave it over to Crosscut.”

“Possibly. But even so, a complete remodel of the ship’s canteen’s layout and structure would take a _long time_. And some of these blaster marks on the walls don’t look that old…” Prowl let his optics wander back to the poster. Something else still didn’t jibe about the situation… but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it just yet. And he didn’t like not being able to put his finger on things.

Maybe it was the jukebox’s absence, as much as he disliked the thing.

“If we’re still on the subject of bad things,” Riptide said in a low voice, “here comes the worst.”

Prowl felt Scavenger quail behind his knees as Megatron stepped down the Rodpod’s ramp, with Ravage slinking at his heels. The black-and-white bot scowled- his brows were starting to hurt from all the time they were spending being beetled- though whether it was because of Megatron’s continued existence, Ravage’s consciousness, or Scavenger’s constant cowardice, he couldn’t tell. “Get out from behind my knees,” he said quietly to the small Constructicon. “Stand up straight. Quit quivering.”

“Ravage is still alive.”

“I know.”

“I’m _scared_.”

“I know.”

“He’s nasty, Prowl! See?!” Scavenger pointed to where the felinoid bot and Nautica crouched, the former swiping a paw full of sharp claws at the latter, much to Megatron’s amusement and Skids’ consternation. “And he did more than that to me.”

“_I know_. We all know, and we all would like it if you stopped reminding us.” Prowl pinched his chin. “You said that Ravage said you _and the others_ had the choice about leaving the Decepticons. Do they know that it extends to them, too?”

“… Yeah. I told them about it once I got my arm reattached.”

“And what were _their_ thoughts?”

“I don’t know about that, either. We’ve… kind of been branching off from each other lately; we haven’t really talked much more about it together.”

“Hm.”

With Nightbeat and Nautica heading elsewhere into the wreckage, Prowl watched as, on apparent orders from his owner, Ravage began to sniff around for any clues, any survivors. He followed the felinoid bot and the others to see what could be found, noting that as he did so, Scavenger broke away from his knees and tried to walk more in step with him.

The group stopped.

“Ultra Magnus,” Ravage stated simply.

“Nuh-uh!” chortled Riptide. “It’s _not_ Ultra Magnus, which makes this a fail… I’m just waiting for confirmation from the judges and… oh! Not only is it a fail, it’s been placed in the _epic_ category.” The boatformer’s voice was loud and nasally and Prowl wished he would shut it off. Not only that, but he was woefully unaware that the small green-and-white bot that lay deactivated before them was, in fact, Ultra Magnus. He couldn’t help but wince slightly at the massive chunk burned out of his side by some sort of powerful energy weapon.

“This _is_ Ultra Magnus,” lamented Getaway after Megatron’s scolding of Riptide, “an Ultra Magnus stripped of his outer armor. His real name is _Minimus Ambus_, and… and yeah.” The colorful bot cradled Minimus’ head in his hands.

“Slag,” said Scavenger softly.

“Here’s the Magnus Armor,” Prowl informed the others, hunkering down next to the familiar giant blue frame, which also had a massive chunk burned out of its side. Skids joined him in examining it; the pair made brief optic contact before getting to work.

“Whoever did this must’ve cut off his hand to stop him activating the teleport in his palm, then _shot him_,” the blue bot reported. “A single blast to the chest. Dragging him from his armor was the _final indignity_. His attacker wanted to-”

“Hold on, Skids,” said Prowl, an eyebrow quirked in intrigue at an observation. “Before you go any further with your assessment, let’s see what you _remember_.”

“Coulda phrased that better, mate,” mumbled Skids.

“You were the best weapons analyst in Special Operations,” Prowl continued, holding up his pointer finger. It was covered in a very thin, shimmering residue he had scraped off of the wound in the Magnus Armor; it glowed slightly pinkish. “Do you remember what kind of weapon leaves _this_ behind?”

Skids squinted at the residue as his brain module worked. Realization dawned on him. “This wasn’t just a blast to the chest…” he said, looking back down at the Magnus Armor. “This was a blast from a _fusion cannon_.”

“Very good.” Prowl and Skids both shot Megatron a dirty glare. Megatron seemed confused.

“What are you saying?” the co-captain asked.

Skids stood and shoved his own pointer finger at Megatron. “I’m saying that this is a future _Lost Light_ and future _you_ is nowhere to be seen.”

“We’ve explored one room…!”

But Skids was on a roll. “I’m saying that the only two people who could rein you in- your _co-captain_ and your _first officer_\- have been murdered.” Prowl was momentarily confused; he hadn’t seen any sign of a dead future Rodimus since this ordeal started. “I’m _saying_ at least one of them was killed by your weapon of choice.”

“I don’t even _have_ my cannon anymore; you made me burn it after I surrendered.”

“So?” Prowl said, standing up himself. “Anything can be replaced.”

Now it was Megatron’s turn to get on a roll. “Whoever killed Magnus knew about the teleport in his hand. I didn’t even know there was a ‘Minimus Ambus’ until… until…” The co-captain’s face fell. “Until you just told me.”

“Exactly,” said Skids in a smug manner.

Even though Prowl didn’t exactly believe in the future ship theory, he decided to press that narrative. “And you’ll be in possession of that knowledge once you tear this ship apart,” he said, crossing his arms.

“I would never do that,” said Megatron quietly.

“Really?” sneered the black-and-white bot. “‘Never?’ Just like you’d never become an Autobot?”

Megatron sighed. “You’re… right.”

Ravage snarled angrily.

“No, Ravage, they are. I’m no longer qualified to predict my own future. In fact, given the circumstances- you should _lock us up_. It’s a small gesture, but… lock us up until you’ve worked out what happened. I promise I won't resist.”

“What about Tiny over here?” piped up Getaway, who had been quietly messing with Scavenger’s scooper arm during the confrontation. “One more ex-‘Con, pseudo-‘Con, whichever- _one more_ in the closet won’t hurt.”

Scavenger looked a silent protest at Prowl, begging him through his visor to not lock him up in a closet with Ravage again. Prowl sighed. “No. As much as I hate to admit it, Scavenger doesn’t pose enough of a threat on his own to warrant being locked up. He _stays out here_.” The small Constructicon brightened.

“I don’t want to have to drag him along,” Getaway said.

“And you won’t have to. Neither will I.” Prowl took some internal satisfaction at Scavenger’s visible deflation. Laying a firm hand on the other bot’s shoulder, he instructed, “When I say you stay out here, I _mean _it. You’re going to stay in this room, and you’re not going to leave it under _any_ circumstances. Look for clues, dig something up, guard the Rodpod, I don’t care. Just _stay here_, understand?”

Scavenger hesitated. “_Understand?_” Prowl asked, more firmly.

“… I understand.”

“Good. While you’re here, you can keep thinking about that choice that Ravage gave you.” The black-and-white bot rounded on the co-captain. “And as for you… if I can’t get an interrogation out of your cat, then I expect _you_ to. I want to hear everything about his kidnapping of Scavenger when we let you out.”

“Fine,” said Megatron.

~

Everyone else was gone.

Megatron had been locked in a closet with Ravage. Prowl, Skids, and Getaway had left soon after, leaving Scavenger by himself in the rubble of the wrecked Swerve’s. For several moments he just stood where Prowl had left him, not knowing what to start doing.

Scavenger knew that he wasn’t the smartest Constructicon when it came to choices. His time with Scrapper had made that very clear. Most of the time he had been allowed to do things on his own, or make his own decisions, they had gone disastrously, leading to severe reprimand from Scrapper at best or an even more severe beating from Megatron at worst. Because of this, his choice-making and general independence had been limited to small things, like scouting out for building materials or useful stuff, but even those didn’t tend to go so well. Most of the time he would bring back things that were broken, old, or not at all useful, leading to another cycle of reprimand. Eventually, he and the others had just decided that he wouldn’t be in charge of making any more choices, in order to increase the team’s productivity and avoid some of the bad press they had been getting from other Decepticons.

Truth be told, Scavenger had actually rather liked this arrangement, and he still did. He _liked_ having an authority figure tell him what to do; it completely erased any chance of things going screwy because of something he decided to do. Simply following orders kept him safe, and it kept him from earning the ire of others, especially his superiors.

But Prowl’s order to stay put had allowed a lot of wiggle room. So long as he didn’t leave Swerve’s, he was basically free to do as he pleased. This put Scavenger in a tricky situation. He didn’t know for sure what he could do that Prowl would for sure approve of, even though he had been given several options.

He finally decided to go through Prowl’s list in order. First was looking for clues. Pulling his scooper arm off of his back, he configured it into the robot mode use setting and dropped the shovel to the floor. In this setting, it looked rather like a human metal detector. The special sensors in the shovel would scope out any unusual energy signatures or items with unique properties that could prove useful or valuable.

Running the shovel over every surface he could find produced several sounds from the shovel. Here it detected a cracked datapad whose screen just barely flickered; before it went out completely, Scavenger saw that it was some sort of playbill. There it detected a blaster that looked like it had been broken in half by someone stepping on it. An engex glass here, a Rodimus Star there, and energon everywhere. Lots and lots of spilled energon.

Scavenger should have been used to the sight of spilled energon, but it still made him slightly queasy.

The shovel made a new noise, something like a heavily vibrating pinging, as it brushed over the hole in the Magnus Armor’s side. This puzzled Scavenger; it hadn’t made that sound before. But Prowl and Skids had investigated it fully just a few minutes ago. He trusted Prowl’s judgment about what he had found. The new sound was probably just the shovel detecting the blaster residue around the wound. Nothing to worry about. He moved on.

After several minutes he had graduated from scanning the floors to scanning the walls, but this brought a new conundrum. Upon running the shovel over some blaster marks, he heard another different sound, this one more like a deep whistle. What was causing _this_ sound, he wondered? If it was simply detecting blaster residue, then why had it made a different noise when he had run it over the Magnus Armor? He knew that lots of different types of blasters left behind different marks and traces; could the shovel be picking up different _types_ of blaster traces?

Some of the blaster marks had residue around them, some were still hot to the touch, and some had different colors of radiation still slowly wafting off them. And the sound of the shovel didn’t change for any of them. If it wasn’t detecting blaster traces, then what _was_ the shovel detecting?

Scavenger tried moving the shovel away from the armor; the pinging stopped. He tried running it over every intact inch of the armor; the area closest to the wound continued to prompt the pinging, but everywhere else simply produced a gentle beep, brought about by the detection of sentio metallico. He tried running it over the remains of the armor’s last occupant, Minimus Ambus; the gentle beep continued, and the deep whistle of blaster traces lingered around that wound, too.

Could whatever was producing this new sound be what had drawn Ravage to the Magnus Armor at the beginning?

To try and answer that, Scavenger moved to the second of Prowl’s suggestions. Dig something up. Transforming into his tiny excavator mode, he positioned the shovel right on the jagged edge of the hole and tugged. When he met with resistance, he tugged harder. With each tug, the sentio metallico creaked until finally, it tore away. Scavenger repositioned the shovel and pulled from a different angle. In this way he slowly but surely widened the wound, the shovel still pinging.

So engrossed was he in his work that he completely forgot to follow Prowl’s only other concrete order- think about Ravage’s choice. All he could think about in the moment was the possibility that whatever he found here would make Prowl happy with him, for once. Pleasing others did wonders for his unusually low self-esteem, but in the past his eagerness to please had resulted in a lot of Decepticons thinking of him as a simpering, doting loser.

The wound was now torn much wider open, and the pinging was still strong around it. Scavenger converted back to robot mode and knelt by the hole to investigate. The darkness of the room made it difficult to see, but he was sure he could see the outline of something moving a little, huddled deeper inside the Magnus Armor just behind the edge of the wound. Was that a blinking red light in there? And were his audials just acting up, or could he hear something that sounded remarkably like quiet vents?

The Constructicon clicked on his built-in chest lamp to its lowest brightness and directed its beam inside, toward the thing huddled up. “Hello…?”

He gasped.

~

“Speaking of loyalty,” said Megatron, hunkering down on the floor, “I presume you were sent to _spy on me_…”

“Soundwave’s orders,” purred Ravage. “I was to watch and wait until I could be certain that the _new you_ was the _real you_.”

“And then?”

“Put you out of your misery.”

“What of the Constructicons?”

“The Constructicons were… an _unforeseen factor_. Nobody quite expected them to desert, much less sign on to an Autobot vessel. I monitored them, as I monitored you; I only kidnapped Scavenger because his bond with the others would make him an easier mouthpiece, and because he was the easiest to get alone.”

“And the easiest to _maim_.”

“It wasn’t my intention to end up tearing his arm off. But as much as the other Decepticons value their gestalt as a weapon, no one would really care if any of the Constructicons were roughed up a bit. _You_, though… if I were to tear _your_ arm off, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“You told him about your spying- about the choice they and I had to make about coming back- before you told me. Why?”

“There was nothing in my orders about concealing myself from them, and I was already fairly certain of where _they_ stood. Like I said, I was to watch _you_ until I could be certain of _you_. I’m still not. And I don’t think you are, either. I don’t think you’re certain about yourself at all; for the first time in your life you don’t know who you _are_. Miner, poet, guerilla, tyrant- now what?”

“Autobot.”

“But _why?_ If you’d had a change of heart you could’ve become a _civilian_\- a Cybertronian, no more, no less. _Why switch sides?_”

…

“And I decided that the best way to leave that person behind- maybe the easiest way- was to become an Autobot.”

“You’re not a monster, and we all have wobbles. All of us, from time to time, we all have wobbles and we all question what we’re doing. It’s part of being a Decepticon. You’ve said so _yourself_. You’re having them, the Constructicons are having them, Scavenger outright told me _he’s_ having them.”

“He shouldn’t. He doesn’t have the drive anymore to question what he’s doing. He should be happy that he’s done what I asked him to do- what I asked them _all_ to do. They’ve _stood down_. He should be happy that I’m _pleased_ he’s done that.”

“He did that long before you actually gave the order. He just needs a little more time and convincing, that’s all. So do you. In years to come- when we’ve _won_\- you’ll remember this conversation and laugh.”

“Years to come? Look at me, Ravage. I’m _old_. Old and weak…”

~

For all Getaway’s talk of a grand Special Operations reunion, Prowl had never expected it to be just him and Skids standing awkwardly aside as Getaway tampered with a light control panel.

“Do you ever wonder why we can’t just use our alt mode headlamps to light things up?” the blue bot asked.

“Sometimes the headlamps end up on the bottom of the bot’s feet,” quipped Getaway. “Can’t do much with _feetlamps_.”

There was more awkward silence, punctuated only by Getaway’s grunts or small noises of pain as something sparked in the panel. Finally, Prowl broke it. “So, then… you ended up getting to the Duobots alright?” he asked Skids, in an attempt to try this catching up thing.

“_Sort of_. They both bought it before I could actually talk to them.”

“Huh.” So _that_ was why they had been oddly quiet after the launch.

“Yeah. Unexpected occupational hazards.”

The lights clicked on, and Getaway rose from his hunch into a self-satisfied pose. “And there we are. Y'know, if the war hadn’t happened, I think I’d have made a pretty good electrician,” the colorful bot said.

“Hold on,” said Prowl. Now that he could see properly, something new registered with him. “We’re missing one. Where’s Riptide run off to?”

“Didn’t you hear, ‘last one to the bridge has to polish Megatron’s badge?’”

“That was him?”

“No, that was me. I wanted some peace and quiet. And anyway, he ended up staying behind to work on the Rodpod.”

Prowl nodded, satisfied, and led the group toward their destination- the bridge. “Well done for fixing the lights, by the way,” he told Getaway.

“Well done for _Megatron_. Both of you. That was bomp-worthy.”

“It’s weird, though,” said Skids, “I almost wanted to apologize for us locking him in… I worry I’m going to stop hating him.”

Getaway pinched his chin. “A Decepticon kills an Autobot, you hate him. But a million Autobots? A _billion?_ It’s meaningless. That’s the problem- the greater the crime, the harder it is to process a response. At that point it becomes just a statistic.”

Prowl scoffed. “Statistics are what make the war go ‘round. Personally, I think that the greater the crime, the _easier_ it is to process a response. A million Autobots, a billion- the scale of it practically _demands_ wrath. And that wrath can only ever grow stronger when you’ve witnessed those million and billion Autobots be snuffed out _firsthand_.”

The trio rounded a corner and found themselves in the ruined doorway of a new room. Their sparks sank.

“Think I might be starting to see your point,” Getaway said. “Something like this _definitely_ deserves some wrath.”

The room they had come across was dark, but the light from the corridor revealed all they needed to see. It seemed like every inch of the floor was covered in corpses. Some of them Prowl recognized right away- Smokescreen, Trailcutter, Blaster, Highbrow- all of them were in alt mode, and all of them were soaked in energon.

“By the Celestial Spires…” Skids swore.

“Any advice on how I can _un-see_ this?” asked Getaway.

“Are they dead?”

“Did you expect anything else?” Prowl asked darkly, hunkering down in front of the corpse of Strafe. “Yes, they’re dead. Very much so. And Primus knows why they’re all in their _secondary modes_.”

“Odd,” said Getaway, running his hands over another body. “There are _two holes_ in every corpse- one gunshot wound and one… what _is_ that? Some kind of borehole?”

Prowl examined the gunshot wound as best as he could in the dark, taking note of the area around and within it. Then he nodded in an assured manner. “Strafe’s been shot in the head.”

“Huh?” Getaway asked.

“When converting to alt-mode, a bot’s head will relocate to a different position in the process, and thus the brain module with it,” Prowl explained. “Look there-” he pointed inside the jagged hole- “at those fragments, if you can see them. They’ve got exactly the same pattern of nodes and rods as a _brain module_.” He moved to another corpse- Inferno's- examined that one’s gunshot wound. “The same fragments are here too. Fewer, but they’re here.”

“Cerebral dowsing, right?” pitched in Skids. “A friend of mine, you could show him any alt mode- any at all- and he could tell you where to find the brain module.”

Prowl nodded again. “It may not look like it, but _everyone_ here has been shot in the head.”

“This is a _mass execution_.” The blue bot knelt in front of Huffer's corpse and stuffed his arm into the borehole, all the way up to the elbow. “As for the borehole, maybe if I can reach down I can find out what- oh no. Oh Pit.”

“What?” asked Prowl.

“Something’s missing,” said Skids in a weak voice. His face dropped, as if he was having some terrible recollection.

“_What’s_ missing?”

Getaway’s personal communicator buzzed. “Y’ello?” he answered. “Uh-huh. Yeah, okay.” He turned to Skids. “Er- are you okay to talk? It’s Nightbeat for you.” Skids wordlessly took the communicator in his energon-covered hand, still wearing the same expression. A small warning bell went off in Prowl’s head. Whatever Skids had discovered, whatever was missing, must have been very severe, if it was enough to make him drop his usually collected demeanor. (“Seriously, you look terrible.”)

“It’s Skids. You and Nautica need to come back _now_. We’re leaving.”

“Don’t you want to know what we’ve found?” Nightbeat’s voice crackled with static over the communicator.

“Wait. Now Megatron’s trying to get through…” Skids thumbed a button. “What is it?”

“I’ve found some Autobots,” crackled the co-captain. “And they’ve been killed in a very specific way.”

“Don’t tell me- they’re missing _transformation cogs_.”

Oh Primus. Prowl felt his own face fall as the implications of Skids’ statement hit him. Missing transformation cogs? There could only be one cause of missing cogs, and it was a cause that nobody wanted to actively acknowledge if they knew what was good for them. In some circles, saying its name was considered a jinx, a curse. Prowl was not a member of these circles, but his next statement, almost in sync with Megatron’s, still tasted as bitter as a curse might-

“_This ship was attacked by the Decepticon Justice Division._”

~

“Oh Primus, oh Primus,” muttered Scavenger as he pulled what he had found out of the Magnus Armor. This wasn’t at all what he had expected. Everything here in Swerve’s was so broken, and to find something intact came as a bit of a shock to him.

To find some_one_ intact was even more of a shock.

Into the freshly restored light, the Constructicon pulled out a small- smaller than even him- black-and-white bot with a red mouthplate, long shoulderpads, and a tiny cylindrical camera mounted close to his visor. The bot’s body was covered in scuffs, scratches, scorch marks, and dents, and he appeared to be unconscious. But despite his terrible condition, nothing was missing or broken off, miraculously, and his frame was still warm with spark energy.

With shaky hands, Scavenger laid the little bot as gently as he could onto a slab of still fairly intact material. The other bot moaned softly. He was waking up! Scavenger started having a quiet panic. He wasn’t cut out for this! His specialty was finding weird and useless stuff, not tending to freshly-awoken victims of violence! He didn’t know what to do!

The little bot’s visor flickered on, glowing a very dim blue. “Urhh… what’s… going on?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

“You just woke up,” said Scavenger, stating the obvious. The little bot tried to sit up. “No, no, shhh,” Scavenger tried to soothe, placing a hand on the little bot’s chest to keep him from rising. “Don’t try to get up. You’re hurt. Just lay still and rest.” He tried to act like Long Haul, the aspiring medic of the team, if he were in a situation like this. He didn’t know how he was doing. “What’s your name?”

“… _Rewind_.”

“Hi, Rewind. I’m Scavenger. You’re going to be okay; just stay put, and others will come soon, okay?”

Rewind nodded, and his visor flickered off as he fell into a slightly easier rest.

Scavenger pinched his chin. He felt like he had just lied to Rewind; he didn’t know for sure if the others would come back soon. And he didn’t have a communicator to contact the others and summon them back. The only way he could let them know what was going on would be to leave Swerve’s. But that would be no good. Not only did leaving the wounded Rewind behind seem like a bad idea, but Prowl had also told him to stay here and not leave no matter what. Leaving would be disobeying his instruction, and would make him angry.

Oh, but how else would he tell anyone that there was a bot still alive on the ship?

As it turned out, he wouldn’t have to leave the room at all, because Prowl, Skids, and Getaway came in. “Guys!” he called excitedly.

“Not now, Scavenger,” grumbled Prowl, making a beeline straight for the closet that Megatron had been locked up. 

"But I found something I think you should see!"

“_Not now, Scavenger_. We're leaving. Show me when we’re out of here.”

“I don’t think it can wait until then! Please?”

Prowl sighed. “Fine. Whatever. Getaway, you get the closet.” He changed course and stood over Scavenger, arms crossed and scowling. “Now. What is this _precious thing_ that you’ve found, that absolutely _cannot_ wait until we’ve left this Pit incarnate behind?”

“I took your suggestions. I started looking for clues, or anything useful, and then my shovel sensors made a weird noise around the Magnus Armor. There was something inside it. So I dug it up. I dug _him_ up. And… well, here.” Scavenger stood aside to reveal Rewind to Prowl.

What expression was that on Prowl’s face, Scavenger wondered? Was it surprise? Anger? Concern? Some combination of the three? Whatever it was, it didn’t particularly look like approval.

“You,” said Prowl. “Found him.” He pointed at Rewind. “In there.” At the Magnus Armor.

“I did! And I did it all without leaving the room, just like you told me to!”

Prowl raised his eyebrows. “_Well then_.”

Scavenger still wasn’t sure how Prowl felt. “… Was I not supposed to find him?” he asked.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting you to actually find anything worthwhile here, much less an _actual survivor_.” Scavenger felt his spark deflate; Prowl hadn’t thought he could do something useful, just like almost everyone else in his life.

“But… I can’t say I’m exactly displeased.”

The small Constructicon perked up. “R… really?”

“Yes. Rewind will be able to tell us what happened here, and we’ll be one step closer to figuring out just what’s going on with the _Lost Light_. Maybe what he tells us will even help us figure out a way to bring everyone back.” Scavenger eagerly met Prowl’s gaze- still stern, but a bit softer now- in expectation…

“I suppose you did a good job.”

He could tell that the black-and-white bot was unused to saying that, but Scavenger didn’t care. If he had a proper face, it would have been sporting the biggest grin he could manage. _Prowl finally approved of something he did_. His spark felt a million miles high; he felt like a weight had been lifted from off his shoulders. He couldn’t seem to get over the idea that Prowl was pleased with him. That was all he had wanted, ever since he had joined him both in the gestalt and on the _Lost Light_.

The ship rocked suddenly. Spouts of blue lightning lit up the room. Scavenger instinctively tossed his body over where Rewind lay to try and protect him; in doing so, he didn’t immediately register Prowl doing the same with him.

“Time to _go_,” said Riptide, over in the group that Scavenger couldn’t help but notice had, whether consciously or unconsciously, distanced themselves from him and Prowl. “I’ve fixed the Rodpod.”

“But we haven’t finished looking for survivors…” said Nautica.

“There are no survivors,” Megatron rumbled.

“How do you know that?” Nautica asked.

“There are no survivors.”

“But how do you _know?_”

“Because I trained the D.J.D to be thorough.”

Scavenger quailed at the co-captain’s mention of the D.J.D, his personal squad of sadists who tracked down aberrant or turncoat Decepticons and murdered them in terrible ways. He quailed further when another thought crossed his mind- if the D.J.D found out that he, Megatron, and the other Constructicons had signed on to an Autobot ship, then they'd put all of _them_ on their dreaded List. If that happened, they'd be on a death timer.

“Actually, you’re entirely wrong about no survivors,” said Prowl. Pushing Scavenger aside, he lifted Rewind in his arms, waking him back up in the process, and turned to reveal him to the group.

There was a stunned silence. A mixture of emotions- mostly surprise, confusion, frightened concern- crossed every bot’s face.

“_Well_,” said Megatron finally, smirking slightly. “It looks like Tarn is getting _sloppy_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaahhh i finished this chapter is so late oh my god  
as promised, scavenger gets a lot more page time in this chapter. it was really fun getting to show off his thought processes, feelings, and personality, as well as what had happened to shape them into what they are now. him being the one to find rewind was the second biggest change i wanted to make for this story arc, as i felt it'd really help move his character arc with prowl forward.  
speaking of, we finally get our spec-ops reunion. i feel kind of bad about replacing riptide with prowl, but it did make for a lot of good banter opportunities that i fully plan to capitalize on throughout the rest of the story. writing prowl, skids, and getaway putting their heads together and figuring stuff out was really satisfying; i imagine that's what they'd do back in the glory days of spec-ops.  
up next: everything is connected


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl has to face an old demon.

“_Rewind?!_” exclaimed Getaway. He, Megatron, Riptide, and Skids all began to crowd around where Prowl was standing and holding the little bot in question. “Is he _alive?_ Is he _okay?_ Is he _conscious?_ Happy with any of the above.”

“He’s not going to appreciate you all crowding around him, that’s for sure,” said Prowl. “Step back.”

In his arms, he felt soft impacts against his plating as Rewind tiredly swatted at him. It seemed that he had finally registered who was holding him. “Put me down,” he said, a note of crossness distinct in his voice. Prowl had no choice but to set Rewind back down on the slab he had lifted him off of, this time in a sitting position. Rewind slapped a lingering hand more firmly away; his visor narrowed at Prowl, who narrowed his optics back.

The black-and-white bot and the archivist had had bad energon between them for ages, mostly because of Chromedome’s almost constant state of emotional hurt. Prowl had used the mnemosurgeon’s loyalty to Rewind as a handy piece of blackmail countless times, and in return, Rewind had made Prowl the butt of many an abusive joke. So high had tensions been between them that, during the Shockwave calamity, Prowl had felt a small sense of schadenfreude when he had learned that Overlord had killed Rewind. That, of course, had led to the second most recent spat with Chromedome, wherein Prowl had been thrown off a cliff. Suffice to say, the two bots were _not_ happy to acknowledge each other’s existence.

Skids squatted down next to Prowl; Rewind turned his attention to him instead. “It’s… _Skids_, isn’t it?” he asked. “We all thought you were dead…”

“You can talk,” the blue bot quipped gently.

“Is that- is that _Nightbeat?_ I know _he_ was dead…”

“Yeah, there’s a story behind that- just don’t expect it to make much sense.”

“And I know for sure _he_ wasn’t here before,” said Rewind, refusing to name Prowl.

“That story doesn’t make much sense either,” said Prowl. “And _he_ makes even _less_.” He pointed at Scavenger, still kneeling in the same spot by the slab. The small Constructicon gave Rewind an equally small wave, and Rewind returned it. His visor dropped to the spot on Scavenger’s chest that had been painted over to hide the Decepticon symbol there, made more obvious in the light; he recoiled a little from him at the sight.

“We have to go,” Megatron rumbled, suddenly standing over the huddle. His voice caught both Prowl and Rewind by surprise. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that this entire structure is _unstable_.”

“Just- two seconds,” said Skids. “I just wanna make sure he’s okay.” Prowl made to stand up, but the blue bot pulled him back down by the arm. “And I want you to help me.”

The response was almost automatic. “_Why?_”

“Because you used to be a _cop_. You’re probably the only one of us here with any actual training in dealing with shock victims.”

“Just because I had training in it doesn’t mean I was actually any _good_ at it. The I.M.D didn’t make me a _murder investigator_ because of my people skills.”

Skids sighed. “Just… give me a hand, would you?” 

“Again, why? I’m probably the _last_ bot in the universe he wants to see after a disaster.”

“That’s perfect, then. His dislike of you will keep him focused on literally _anything else_.” This assessment caused Prowl to scowl harder. He jerked his chin at Scavenger, silently ordering him to go somewhere else while he worked. Scavenger complied.

Skids turned back to Rewind, who now wore an expression of frightened confusion. Or rather, he wore as much of an expression of frightened confusion as a bot with a visor and mouthplate could. “?” the archivist choked out, gesturing to the retreating Megatron.

“Oh yeah, _him_,” said Skids. “That’s something else that happened.”

“But he’s an _Autobot!_”

“In name,” mumbled Prowl.

“Aside from Nightbeat not being dead and Megatron not being a Decepticon, it’s business as usual,” Skids said chipperly.

Rewind pointed over to where Nightbeat and Nautica were puzzling over the poster from earlier. “And the bot with Nightbeat, who’s he?”

“That’s _Nautica_, and… she’s a she. Aside from Nightbeat not being dead and Megatron not being a Decepticon and Nautica not being a he, it’s business as usual.”

“Don’t lie to him,” Prowl grumbled.

“I’m not lying to him!” Skids protested.

“Yes you are! You keep saying ‘oh, it’s business as usual,’ when it is _not_, in fact, business as usual. This whole situation is business as… _un_usual.”

“And for us, business as unusual _is_ business as usual!”

“Primus, I don’t have time for this.” Prowl grabbed Rewind firmly by the shoulders, ignoring the archivist’s attempts to recoil. “Rewind, what _happened_ to you? And the others, what happened to them? What happened to the _ship?_” He shook Rewind as he spoke. Rewind quailed and whimpered at this rough treatment.

Skids shoved his way between Prowl and Rewind. “Get _off_ of him, you aft,” he reprimanded.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” replied Prowl. “This is _important_.”

“Important, but not urgent. He’s in no fit state to handle an interrogation. Just _look_ at him!” Skids hissed, gesturing to Rewind, who had his head in his hands and was whimpering harder.

Prowl did look at him… and felt nothing. In his mind, pussyfooting around the situation and trying to ease information out was an unproductive venture. It always had been. Information, and thus results, came with quick, direct questioning and action. Quick action was how many situations in the past had been taken care of- the Tygun factory incident, the Battle of Junkion, the attempt to assassinate Bumblebee.

Bumblebee…

It was Bumblebee’s _lack_ of quick action after the war that had caused things to escalate into his death, and the deaths of so many others. And Prowl would be cursed before he let a lack of quick action result in that again. Which was why he needed Rewind to tell him what happened right away, so that he and the others could bring everyone who had vanished back.

To his surprise, Rewind ejected a familiar tiny object from a port on his wrist- a data slug. He took it and inserted it gently into the info port at the back of his neck. A blip appeared in his HUD, asking whether he wanted to play the media stored. Prowl accepted.

He was vaguely aware of Nautica calling the group together excitedly, but his focus was on the events recorded on the data slug.

_A failed quantum jump to an apparently correct set of coordinates. Forty bots lost in the ensuing explosion and hull breach, including Rung. A sparkeater accidentally released. Rodimus using another bot as bait for the sparkeater, but getting his head mashed into the engines in his attempt to kill it. Drift presiding over Rodimus’ funeral, carried out in Spectralist fashion. Ultra Magnus taking command. Drift coming clean about Overlord being stowed away. Magnus beginning an urgent announcement…_

That was where the media ended.

The data slug ejected. Prowl’s fingers shook slightly as he pulled it from his info port. He looked from it to Rewind, back to it, and back to Rewind again. The archivist still hunched over, quivering and whimpering, and suddenly Prowl was able to understand why he was doing that just a little bit better. But how was he supposed to _react_ to him doing that? Comforting reactions were _other_ bots’ specialties, not his.

He reached out an awkward hand to lay on Rewind’s shoulder. It was smacked away.

“_Don’t touch me_.”

~

“So you’re saying that this _Lost Light_ is a _duplicate?_”

“No, it’s the original.”

“So _ours_ was the duplicate?”

“No, ours was the original as well.”

“Fine. I’ll pretend I get it.”

Scavenger nodded faux-sagely, acting like he understood the rather complicated hypothesis that Nautica had presented to the group about what had happened to the _Lost Light_. In reality, however, he was in the same boat as Getaway- only _pretending_ to get it. What he _thought_ it boiled down to, in essence, was that the engines had forced the ship to duplicate itself and jump to two different places. But then, if the ship was duplicated, how could both versions be the original? His lack of understanding in the sciences was why he had consistently stuck to construction/demolition work.

“I _do_ get it,” he heard a familiar voice cut in. He turned eagerly to find Prowl returning to the group, something small in his hand. “I’ve just _watched_ it, in a manner of speaking. Rewind made a travelogue- and it backs up everything I imagine Nautica just said, as well as my _own_ theory that’s been building since we got here.” Prowl proceeded to launch into a story about losing bots, a sparkeater, a Spectralist funeral, and Overlord’s presence being revealed on this ship. Scavenger winced a little at the mention of Overlord- the feared Phase Sixer had been stowed away here? He was glad that he hadn’t been there for that.

“… And that’s as far as the story goes. I don’t know what happened next.”

“I’ll give you three guesses,” Rewind piped up shakily, “one for each letter.”

Nightbeat pinched his chin. “The D.J.D…”

Rewind fingered the camera on the side of his head. “Someone on board led them to our front door- on purpose.” A stream of light emanated from the camera- evidently it also worked as a projector- and displayed…

“Oh Primus,” Scavenger heard himself mutter.

Rewind continued talking, but Scavenger was focused entirely on the projection on a still-intact portion of the walls. Never in his life since joining the Decepticons and learning of the D.J.D had he had the desire to actually see them in action, or in general. To him, imagining them as some sort of far-off, faceless entity that wouldn’t come bother him if he was a good bot somehow made them feel like a little less of a threat. And yet here they were, before his optics, carrying out execution after execution with something that looked horribly like manic _glee_. Just because it was a projection didn’t make it any less terrifying.

The small Constructicon’s spark sank lower when he caught sight of a giant navy bot tearing a poor little blue one in half with a beefy pair of arms… while dual-wielding pistols with a second, spindlier pair. The two pairs of arms, coupled with the large glass window in his chest, was all Scavenger needed to recognize him.

_Crucible._

Scavenger remembered that Crucible had worked with him and the other Constructicons way back before the war, helping them smelt down Empties to use as materials for the gladiatorial pits of Kaon. They had considered him their _friend_. And then he had vanished shortly into the war; nobody knew what had happened to him. Until now, Scavenger guessed. The thought of one of his old friends getting inducted into the worst group of Decepticon thugs known to Cybertronian kind scared him.

The thought of that old friend being the one to _execute him_ if he found out about the Constructicons being turncoats scared him even more.

Scavenger was pulled out of his solitary fear by someone calling out, “Sorry to interrupt, but… Nautica?”

~

“Ooh, that's not a good thing,” Nautica said. “This whole sector’s been _thinned out _by _excessive hyperspatial _activity. If the foam reaches a major weak spot, the chain reaction could rip that planet to shreds.”

Prowl pinched his chin and glared through the huge missing chunk of the _Lost Light_ at the planet below. “Ofsted XVII is an _A-level planet_,” he reported. “Population might have gone down ever since the annexing by the Galactic Council, but it’s definitely still populated. If we want to avoid a planetary explosion, then we have to _act_.”

“Right-o,” chipped in Skids.

“The quantum drums are remote linked to the quantum engines. Deactivating the drums _should _shut down the engines, which _should _get rid of the foam,” said Nautica.

“Can we turn those ‘shoulds’ into ‘wills?’” Skids asked.

Nautica spoke slowly this time, as if she was musing on what she was saying as she was saying it. “If my _two ships _theory is sound, then the other _Lost Light _is being held in a kind of _cosmic abeyance_\- like the universe has yet to fully commit to its non-existence. We can exploit that. If we shut down the engines _completely _for the first time since takeoff, anything linked to or produced by the engines should get _canceled out_.”

“But the drums are surrounded by the explodey string!” piped up Scavenger. Prowl didn’t put much weight on the small Constructicon’s mental capabilities, but he still wished that he would say something from time to time that wasn’t extremely obvious or very dumb.

“Quantum foam, Scavenger,” Nautica gently corrected. “It’s _not_ string,” Prowl heard her mutter under a vent.

“He makes a good point,” said Ravage from behind Prowl, startling him. The black-and-white bot jumped a little at the felinoid bot’s sudden assertion of his presence; this was not unnoticed by Scavenger, who he saw was clearly amused. He scowled at Scavenger. Scavenger stopped being amused. “We’d have to fly the Rodpod through a _web of death_,” Ravage continued. “If we leave now and head _away_ from this mess we can outrun any explosion- even a planetary one.”

Skids planted his fist into his open palm. “No,” he said determinedly, “we _fix this_. Lives are at stake.” Prowl gave a silent nod of agreement.

Megatron finally saw fit to weigh in on their course of action. “If that planet was teeming with _Cybertronians_, then yes, there’d be an argument for going back into the breach, but I doubt that’s the case.”

Prowl had expected nothing less from the co-captain. Old ideologies died hard, it seemed. “And there they are,” he growled, “your _true colors_.”

“I’d forgotten how purple they were,” said Skids sarcastically, crossing his arms.

“You’ve forgotten something else- I am your prisoner,” Megatron said defensively. “I’ve been granted _conditional bail_ while we look for the Knights of Cybertron. Where in my bail terms does it say - where _precisely_ does it say - that I have to risk my life to save a handful of strangers? Where does it say _that?_”

Prowl found that he and Skids moved and spoke almost in sync with what happened next. Both bots reached out an accusing finger and jabbed Megatron in the chestplate, directly over the Autobot badge that glowed there. (The Autobot badge that Prowl _still_ wanted to shoot through. His acid pellet launcher was so close…) “Right. There,” both of them said, and Prowl made a small show of wiping the contact with Megatron’s plating off on his thigh strut.

“What does that badge even _mean_ to you?” asked Skids. “How has wearing it forced you to _modify_ your behavior? I’m serious! How has being an Autobot _in any way_ prevented you from doing exactly what you want? Because if the answer is ‘_it hasn't_’- then nothing you’ve said or done in the last several weeks counts for _anything_.”

“If you’re so concerned about saving _Cybertronians_,” Prowl accused, “then think about this- getting rid of the foam around that planet will also bring back the Cybertronians that, need I remind you, have _vanished_. The Cybertronians that _you_, as an Autobot and as a leader, are _supposed to care about_.” His hand went pointedly to brush against his back, wordlessly reminding the co-captain of their physical spat early into the voyage. “If we leave, you’ll be abandoning them to a fate of complete nonexistence. I’m pretty sure keeping your crew safe from fates like that _is_ within your bail terms.”

Getaway coughed, but to Prowl’s audials, it sounded like he was trying to hide saying a certain three-syllable word that began with “h.” He glanced venomously at the colorful bot, who gave a quick thumbs-up.

“I spoke too soon,” Nautica reported, bringing them all back to the situation at hand. “The foam around the drums is too tightly meshed. Not even the Rodpod could fit through.”

“Maybe not,” piped up Rewind, tapping Nautica on the arm, “… but I could. I’m _tiny_.”

Nautica knelt down and placed a hand gently on the archivist’s shoulder; Prowl was only a little bit envious that Rewind didn’t recoil from her touch. “Oh, Rewind, that’s- I admire that, but- it’s a job for _two_. The drums need to be deactivated _simultaneously_. And before you volunteer, Ravage, I’m sorry, but you lack the manual dexterity to perform the task.” She placed her other hand gently on the felinoid bot’s head, perhaps unconsciously rubbing him with her fingers.

“Touch me again and I’ll kill you.”

Scavenger waved a hand excitedly in the air. “Ooh, ooh! What about _me?_ I’m small, too! Maybe _I_ can fit through the explodey string!”

(“_It’s not string!_” Nautica quietly protested again.)

“_No_,” said Prowl flatly. “You’re small, yes, but judging by the spaces between those strands of foam, you’re still _too big_. You’d bump into it without paying attention and send us all off to the Pit.”

Getaway pinched his chin. “In that case, unless anyone else here is gonna do a _Minimus Ambus_, it looks like-”

“That’s it!” Skids cried, clapping his hands excitedly. “Getaway, you’re a _genius!_”

“Thank you!” replied Getaway, making several excited gesticulations. “Finally! Yes, I know! But _why_. Why am I a genius, please explain.”

“Just follow me…”

Skids began to lead the group off somewhere. Prowl made to follow them, but Nautica placed a hand on his chestplate to stop him. “Actually, Prowl, would you do me a _huge_ favor and keep an eye on the quantum foam with Rewind for me? Please?” she asked sweetly.

“And keep the engines warm, too, while you’re at it?” Skids called back. “If we can find what I think is here, then we’ll need to use the Rodpod _right away_.”

Prowl looked between the two bots, over his shoulder to Rewind, and down at Scavenger. He knew what the little green bot was going to ask. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll stay,” he said. “But _you_-” he pointed at Scavenger- “can’t. You heard Skids, they’re going to find a thing. You go with them and use your shovel sensors or whatever to help them find it.”

The small Constructicon saluted earnestly. “_Aye-aye_, sixth man! I’ll make you proud again!”

“Don’t ever call me that again.”

“Here,” said Nautica, handing over her wrench. “Use the binocular function to monitor the foam. I’ve got a comm with me; give me an update every once in a while, okay?”

“Thanks, Prowl, you’re the best!” Skids shouted as he and the others retreated further into the wreckage. With one last thumbs up, Scavenger too disappeared into the darkness, leaving Prowl standing by himself with a wrench that he had no idea how to use. How did _wrenches_ have a binocular function?

~

“How does a _shrink ray_ work, anyway?”

The group had made it to Brainstorm’s lab, a place that Scavenger had never been because he was not allowed inside. He imagined that it usually looked a lot nicer than this. The place was absolutely wrecked, just like everywhere else around here- monitors were shattered, counters and cabinets were toppled, gadgets were broken, and the floor was covered in a lot of sticky scientific goo.

“I should’ve called it a _mass displacement gun_,” said Skids in reply to Riptide’s question, “and I don’t know. But Brainstorm used one on me when Ultra Magnus was infected by _nanocons_. Just keep looking- and bear in mind it might be very, very small…”

Mass displacement? That sort of technology had a very distinct sound to it- Scavenger had had to locate some a while ago, and he still remembered the loud buzz his sensors had made when he had found it. Dropping his shovel to the floor, he set to work once again, determined to find the mass displacement gun.

He kept close to Nautica and Nightbeat. Even against the background noise of them talking about anomalies, competing outcomes, and cross-contamination- terms that all made his brain module swim- he still picked up every sound that his shovel made. It made a high blipping over the corpse of some odd creature Nautica held. It made a pulsing hum over the broken, sparking glass of a large monitor. And beneath a large slab of steel, it made the familiar gentle beep of sentio metallico. Tossing his shovel to the side, he squatted down beside the slab and tried his absolute best to lift it up.

“Uh, a little help?” he called out once his shoulders had grown tired.

Natutica and Nightbeat came over, still chattering away. They lifted the steel away to reveal…

“Brainstorm…?” asked Nightbeat to no one in particular.

So _that_ was what Brainstorm looked like.

“All this time and I never knew he had a mouth,” lamented Nautica, turning Brainstorm’s body over. “He never took off his faceplate…”

Another gentle beep caught Scavenger’s attention. “Well, _now_ he has,” he said, picking up a piece of gold-colored sentio metallico- Brainstorm’s mouthplate. It was a wholly unremarkable mouthplate, but for some reason it excited him. “Can I _keep _it? If he’s not using it, I think maybe I can get Hook to paint it up as a present for Mixmaster!”

“Scavenger? Mass displacement gun, remember?” Nightbeat said.

“Oh! Right!” The small Constructicon shoved the mouthplate into his personal subspace, picked up his shovel, and went right on looking. He covered every inch of the destroyed lab that he could, asked for help lifting things if needed, and all in all just milled about doing his job. But nothing he ran his shovel over produced the loud buzz of mass displacement technology.

“Scavenger, you find anything?” he heard Skids call. His face fell.

“No…” he reported despondently.

“Okay, so the smallification machine _clearly_ isn’t here,” Riptide said, throwing his hands in the air. “Maybe this now-completely-dead Brainstorm never got around to it.”

Skids pinched his chin. “Nautica, toss me that comm; I’ve got a question for Rewind…”

~

Prowl found Rewind sitting at the edge of the wreckage, legs dangling off absently, visor fixated on the glowing red quantum foam. He wandered over to sit down next to him, but the archivist pointedly shifted to a spot further away, never taking his visor off of the foam. Prowl sighed.

“We’re going to fix this,” he hazarded after a moment of awkward silence. “Everything’s going to be _fine_.”

“Are you telling _me_ that, or are you telling _yourself?_” Rewind asked accusatorially. “Because if you’re telling me, I’d reply by saying no, you _aren’t_ going to fix this. You _can’t_. It’s _not_ going to be fine.”

“Rewind-”

“This is _all your fault_, Prowl. Magnus told us that you had bullied Rodimus and Drift into bringing Overlord on board. Overlord being here was why the D.J.D came and slaughtered everyone. Their deaths are on _your_ hands.”

“Don’t you try to pin this on me,” Prowl snarled. “_I_ wasn’t the one who killed the crew.”

“But what you _did_ led to that.” Rewind turned to face him; he could see the optical gauze starting to overheat. “Why couldn’t you have just left well enough alone? The war was _over_. It _is_ over.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said before the launch? Just because the war is over doesn’t mean we can afford to _stop fighting_. And so far, I’ve been proved right time and time again.”

“We can’t afford to stop fighting because of bots like _you!_ Bots who go sticking their fingers in everybody’s business, when they don’t belong there!”

“I put my fingers in everybody’s business for the sake of our _preservation!_”

Rewind gestured to the wrecked _Lost Light_. “And how’s that worked out for you?” The archivist began to cry. “What you did _killed_ people, Prowl. It killed people we thought you _cared about_, people we thought were your _friends_. Were we wrong to think that?” He held up a small, thin, pointy object that Prowl recognized- a mnemosurgery needle. The black-and-white bot’s brows beetled, and he made an angry gesture.

“Yes, you were. Chromedome was _never_ my friend,” he sneered. “He _never_ cared about me! If he did, he wouldn’t have turned his back on me the moment things didn’t go his way!”

The archivist’s crying intensified. “He _did_ care about you! He cared enough to work with you through all those years in the I.M.D! He cared enough to confront you about joining the Senate’s Security Forces when he knew it was bad for you! He cared enough to agree to take part in your crazy Overlord project when he knew it was bad for _him!_ He cared enough to try and reason with you through all the blackmail, all the abuse, all the _hurt you put him through!_” Rewind paused, drawing in a few hiccupping vents. “As long as you knew him, you hurt him. Coming aboard the _Lost Light_ was his way of saying he had had _enough_. And yet you somehow managed to find a way to keep hurting him, so much so that he ended up dying.

“You can try to shift the blame for everyone else’s deaths, but Chromedome’s pain will _always and forever _be on your hands.”

Prowl barely had time to think about what Rewind had told him, when the comm buzzed. He awkwardly turned away to answer. “Yes?”

“Pass the comm over to Rewind, would you?” Skids’ voice crackled.

“Uh…” The black-and-white bot turned back. “It’s Skids for you.”

Rewind snatched the comm away. “Hello?” he asked, clearly fighting to keep the shakiness out of his voice. “Mm-hmm. Oh, domesticated scraplets. Once they’d hunted down the nanos we got rid of _them_ by flooding Magnus with _liquid antivirals_. That was when we found out about Minimus Ambus…” He handed back the comm. “The others are coming back.”

“Rewind… you have to understand, it was never my intention for the Overlord project to hurt anyone.”

“Did bots get hurt because of it on your _Lost Light_?”

“… Yes.”

“Then it wasn’t the Overlord project’s fault.”

Presently, the rest of the group returned. “_Pile in_, everyone,” instructed Nautica. “We’ve found our way to turn off the drums.”

“The engines are cold, chief!” called Getaway jovially. “What was the only other thing we asked you to do?”

As Prowl filed into the Rodpod, Scavenger put a comforting hand on his arm. “If it makes you feel any better, I failed at my job, too,” he said gently. Prowl wrenched his arm away and shut the ramp behind him. Through the front window, he observed Megatron make his way over to stand next to Rewind at the edge of the wreckage… and _shrink_. He cocked an eyebrow.

“Why didn’t he just do that before?” he asked.

“That’s what _I_ said,” said Getaway.

~

“Nautica? Have I got that wrong?”

“No, I think- I think you’re right. And what’s more… I think our _Lost Light_ might be reinstated. Crew and all. I’m _sorry_. There’s no way the two ships can _co-exist_, even if one crew were dead and the other were alive…”

“Rewind- do you want to turn back?”

…

“No. No, I’m actually kinda happy to be canceled out. What’s left for me here? Chromedome’s dead - which is just another way of saying _I_ am. In fact I wanted to ask earlier but… on your _Lost Light_, me and Domey… are we still going strong?

“Megatron?”

…

“You’re inseparable.”

“Come on, then. Last switch. Let’s not drag out the goodbyes. On the count of three…”

_Thanks for trying to help, everyone._

“Two…”

_Goodbye, Prowl. Think about what I said, won’t you?_

“One.”

Flick.

~

“Just as Nautica predicted, everything’s changing back to the way it was... well, the way it was a few hours ago.”

Indeed, it was just as Nautica predicted. With the deactivation of the quantum drums, the wreckage of the other _Lost Light_ had vanished, and slowly but surely, the Rodpod was filling up with the bots that had occupied it earlier. Prowl watched as Ammo popped back into existence next to him, then Cyclonus a few feet away, then Hoist. Skids and Nightbeat stood close by.

“Mind telling me what happened?” a freshly-returned Ratchet asked, rubbing his neck.

Nightbeat grinned. “Short version? You disappeared and then came back- all in one piece.” He gestured confidently to the old medic’s now reattached and properly colored hands.

“What about the others? Hound, Highbrow…”

“Incoming people are returning in _reverse order_\- the last to go are the first to come back.”

Another few feet away, the familiar shape of Chromedome began to rematerialize in a small flash.

“Ah,” Skids said. “There’s Chromedome now…"

“What do we tell him?” Nightbeat asked.

“Let _me_ tell him,” said Prowl, jostling his way over to the mnemosurgeon. Something Rewind had said had struck a chord in him, and he felt prompted to act on it.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Skids asked.

“No.”

Megatron reached over from where he was leaning against the Rodpod’s console, trying to stop Prowl. “I _wouldn’t_ do that. Rodimus instructed you to-”

The black-and-white bot held up a finger to cut off the co-captain’s attempted enforcing of Rodimus’ stupid rule. He glared daggers as he said, “What Rodimus instructed me to do can go suck my piston. _Let me do this_.” Without another word, he scooted within arm’s reach of Chromedome, who scowled.

“Welcome back,” said Prowl.

“Thanks,” said Chromedome. Prowl could tell that he didn’t want to talk.

“I think you should know… we found something in the wreckage. Some_one_. We found… well, we found a duplicate Rewind. A duplicate Rewind that was alive and... well.”

Chromedome’s visor widened in anticipation. “You did?”

“Yes. He and I had a bit of a talk, and he helped us get you and the rest back. But… when the other _Lost Light_ disappeared…”

“Prowl…?”

“… _Rewind went with it_.”

Chromedome’s shoulders sagged. “Right,” he said, nascent anger in his low voice. “Why are you telling me this? Just so you can rub it in my face that Rewind’s gone _forever_ and I’ll _never_ be able to make things right with him again? Typical of you.”

Prowl placed a hand on Chromedome’s shoulder stacks. “No. Nautica mentioned something about how the two versions couldn’t exist at the same time. Not the _Lost Light_s, and not the bots on it. Don’t you see? If the duplicate Rewind got cancelled out with the duplicate _Lost Light_… then that means that the _other_ Rewind- the Rewind _you_ know…

“Is _still out there_ somewhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i regret nothing  
this chapter was a bit of a pain to write, because the solving of the duplicate!_lost light_ was written so tightly that i didn't really know what to do with it at times. some changes were definitely made- i didn't want anyone finding out about brainstorm's status as a (spoilers) until a little bit later for the sake of this story, which is ultimately a minor change imo, but oh boy oh boy the other ones are a lot more major.  
the addition i made of scavenger remembering helex is a bit of a callback to _ megatron origin_, in which the constructicons made use of a portable smelting pool. helex turns into a portable smelting pool. you do the math. i figured that scavenger recognizing helex would add an interesting dynamic to the eventual ending arc.  
send me all of your hate regarding the end of this chapter, lmao  
up next: the other constructicons get the spotlight


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Constructicons try to make some new friends, but end up making some new enemies.

Long Haul let out a vent that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. Scavenger was safe.

“You feel it too, right?” asked Hook, regarding the soft tingling brought on by the gestalt bond. “He’s _okay_. There was nothing you needed to freak out over.”

“I wouldn’t say that; the _Lost Light_ disappearing is something to freak out about,” retorted Long Haul, taking a seat on the floor next to his brother. “It’s just… I worry about Scavenger. It feels like ever since we left Cybertron, he’s gotten himself into trouble every time he’s ventured out of optic range. I’m afraid one day I won’t be able to help get him out.”

“If he can survive losing half his energon and a whole arm, he can survive _anything_.”

“That’s what I’d like to think…”

The four Constructicons huddled within the back hold of the _Turben_; them being so big, that was the only spot on the shuttle that could hold all of them at once. Up in the main passenger hold of the chunky blue shuttle, three other bots sat on benches bolted into the wall, showing much more outward confusion and concern than the Constructicons were. None of them had any idea where they were going or what was happening. In Mixmaster’s case, he didn’t even look like he _wanted_ to know where they were going or what was happening. He was still engrossed in his thick datapad as if it was the most important thing in the universe, as if this was just another regular day.

“What’s so important on that datapad that’s causing you to ignore the fact that our home basically just _vanished?_” Hook asked.

The mixing truck glanced up over the datapad’s top edge. “The Autobot Code!” he said. “Can’t I study for Magnus’ next test on it even through the _Lost Light_ disappearing?”

“But without the _Lost Light_, where’s he going to hold the next test?” asked Bonecrusher, picking at the corner of a piece of floor plating.

“He’ll find a place. I’m sure of it.”

“Speaking of tests, he hasn’t really been forthcoming with their results lately,” Long Haul said, rubbing the top of his head. “Come to think of it, I haven’t gotten a grade back on a single one.”

“Me neither,” said Hook.

“I haven’t gotten one back because I haven’t taken a test,” said Bonecrusher, beaming smugly. “I’ve been playing _hooky_ this whole time.”

“You have?” asked Long Haul, frowning.

“You’ve _gotta_ learn how to keep an eye on one of us _besides_ Scavenger, bro.”

“There’s actually a reason for that,” said Mixmaster. “I asked Magnus the other day about where our grades were, and he told me he hasn’t shared them with us because- get this- they’re affecting his health. We’re doing _so poorly_ on his tests that we’re making him sick. The results of our last one sent him to Ratchet with _internal energon leaking_. He said, and I quote, that at this rate, either Rodimus will actually finish the quest or he’ll _die_ before _any_ of us get Autobranded.”

Long Haul winced. “_Yeouch_.”

“Fragging right, yeouch. So if we wanna keep the first officer’s brain module from imploding, we’ve gotta study.”

“Even in the middle of a disaster?” asked Hook.

Mixmaster nodded. “_Especially_ in the middle of a disaster.”

The conversation was interrupted by a loud squeal of tearing metal. Bonecrusher had graduated from simply picking at the corner of the floor panel, to ripping it off. It didn’t bother the other Constructicons, but it did bother one of the other bots in the _Turben_ enough to make him come storming into the back hold. “What in the Pit is going on back here?”

“_Prowl?_” asked Mixmaster confusedly. The other bot did look rather a lot like Prowl, except painted mostly blue. His chevron was even the same shade of red.

“That’s not Prowl, you idiot,” sneered Hook. “It’s Dancing Bot!”

Long Haul’s visor lit up. “Hey, it _is_ Dancing Bot!”

The other bot pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh Primus, not you guys again,” he muttered. “Yeah, it’s me. It’s Dancing Bot. Wait, no, it’s _not_ Dancing Bot. It’s _Bluestreak_. Don’t call me Dancing Bot.”

“Are you finally going to teach us how to dance, Dancing Bot?” Hook asked, rubbing his hands together.

“I _just said-_” But whatever Bluestreak had just said was lost as Hook stood up and began performing a butchered version of the routine he, Long Haul, and Scavenger had seen on the night they had gone down to Swerve’s, much to the amusement of the other Constructicons. “Stop it,” the blue bot said. “Now is not the time for dancing. We’re experiencing a crisis here, and that guy-” he pointed at Bonecrusher- “is _breaking the floor_. Why is he breaking the floor?”

The bulldozer looked innocently over his shoulder. “I’m _bored_,” he said simply.

Bluestreak was incredulous. “_What?_ How can you be bored in the middle of a disappearing ship crisis?!”

(“Is crisis your favorite word now?” Mixmaster asked.)

“I’unno,” shrugged Bonecrusher. “But breaking stuff keeps me not bored.”

“It’s true,” said Long Haul. “He once pulled all the plating off my right leg because there was a slump in the action during a campaign.”

“He disassembled my favorite proton cannon,” said Hook.

“He threw my datapad at some blue fellow,” said Mixmaster.

“Does he keep from being bored by _fixing_ the stuff he breaks?” asked Bluestreak.

As a unit, the Constructicons said, “No.”

Bluestreak stomped over to Bonecrusher and tried to pull the floor panel out of his grip, thus engaging in a small tussle with the Constructicon. “Well, quit breaking the shuttle, man, we kinda need it! First Aid! Can’t you give this guy, like, a sedative or something to make him stop… you know, _this?_”

“I would,” called a voice from further up in the shuttle, “except I can’t seem to find my medical kit…”

“Relax, Dancing Bot,” said Bonecrusher, pulling the floor plating completely away and taking Bluestreak with it. “I’m not breaking the shuttle; I’m just breaking off the top of this _secret compartment_.” He peered inside the small cubby that had been revealed, and was pleased to discover an old metal chest nestled firmly inside it.

“Secret compartment?” asked Hook.

“This should be good,” said Long Haul.

“Let me see!” said Mixmaster.

“Stop calling me Dancing Bot,” said Bluestreak.

Long Haul’s large hands had some trouble fitting into the small compartment, but they eventually lifted the chest out and onto the floor. The Constructicons huddled around it; they accidentally left no room for Bluestreak to squeeze into, leaving him to huff in frustration and venture back to the main passenger hold. The chest was gray with age, the yellow glyphs around the top edge had lost almost all of their glow, and there was no lock on it. Whoever had sealed it inside the _Turben_ had clearly not believed it would be found. Bonecrusher opened it to reveal…

“Whoa!” the bulldozer exclaimed. He reached inside and pulled out a round, flat object about twice as large as a shanix coin. Its glowing red center, surrounded by an intricate silver border, had an unusual hieroglyph emblazoned on one side. On the other were two indents about the size of a Cybertronian thumbprint.

“There are, like, _113_ of them in here!” Mixmaster said excitedly, holding a green one with a different symbol just a little too tightly… _Snap_. “Uh, make that _112_.”

“What _are_ these things?” Hook asked, examining a blue one. His question was met with a resounding chorus of “_I don’t know_”s from his brothers. It didn’t surprise him- they had all been too busy fighting a four-million-year-long war and goofing off afterward to pay attention to much of anything that wasn’t gunfire, combining, or Prowl.

He left them to argue about Bonecrusher taking the thingy Mixmaster had been looking at to ask one of the others if they had any idea what their new haul was, ignoring the lights flickering off and back on for a few seconds…

~

Bluestreak returned to the main passenger hold to find First Aid on the floor with his aft in the air, groping about under one of the benches. “I _swear_ I brought it with me,” he heard the medic say softly, in reference to his personal medical kit.

“Hey!” someone called loudly from immediately behind them all. The unexpected shout made Bluestreak jump, First Aid bang his head against the underside of the bench, Trailcutter fumble with- and then drop- his datapad, and Mainframe up in the cockpit accidentally swerve the _Turben_, causing everyone to stumble. Numerous dirty looks were cast back at Hook, who smiled sheepishly in apology.

“Sorry,” the Constructicon said. “Only Boney found a chest full of these, and we wanted to know if any of you know what they are.” He held up a glowing blue disc bearing a strange symbol.

First Aid’s glare changed instantly as his visor locked onto the object Hook was holding. “That’s a _Cyber Planet Key!_” he said. “I haven’t seen one of those in ages, and never in person!”

“A what?” Trailcutter asked.

“Way back in the early stages of the war, some Cybertronian neutrals formed a _mercenary’s guild_, hiring themselves out to either faction, doing dirty deeds for _dirt cheap_,” explained First Aid, moving his hands excitedly as he talked. “Cyber Planet Keys acted as their form of a _bond marker_\- the hired bot would drip some of their energon on it when accepting a job, and when the job was done, their client would drip some of _theirs_, marking the hired bot free. They fell out of major use around the time of the Surge, but I’ve heard that one can still get you a favor in some parts of the universe. You know, some of the _Wreckers_ were members of that mercenary’s guild before-”

First Aid was interrupted by Bluestreak’s sarcastic clapping. “Yay, history lesson. Woohoo. I feel _so_ educated. You know what that thing is now; go on back to your buddies and play with it or something, I don’t care.” He made an aggressive shooing motion at Hook. Hook’s face fell, but he shooed.

“What was that for?” asked Trailcutter. “He just wanted to know what it was. No need to be so harsh.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bluestreak, clearly not sorry, “but I can’t be the only one on this boat who takes issue in sharing it with a bunch of _Decepticons_.”

“But… we shared the _Lost Light_ with _Megatron_, and I never once heard you complain about _that_.”

“There’s a lot you haven’t heard me complain about, Trail. Anyway, maybe if it were some other group of Decepticons, then maybe I wouldn’t be so ‘harsh.’ Key word there is _maybe_. But those guys?” He pointed toward the back hold. “Those guys I have a special dislike for. You wanna talk about the early stages of the war, First Aid? Praxus- my home city- was _destroyed_ in those early stages, and those guys were the ones that did it. They tore apart every structure, every bot, for building materials. _Building materials!_ And they made me watch them do it.” Bluestreak’s voice cracked as he recalled that night. “They kept me alive as a _propaganda tool_, and it worked. And I’ve never been able to forgive them for it. So please excuse me if I take issue with Rodimus just up and letting the bots who _ruined my life_ waltz on board.”

When he had finished his spiel, he huddled into a ball, arms crossed, trying not to let his optical gauze overheat. He remembered the fire, the screams, and the sight of the Constructicons pulling his _amica endura_ Navigator apart, limb from limb. He barely registered First Aid putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

The lights flickered off.

Something fell hard to the floor.

Then back on.

“There was a bench, wasn’t there?” asked First Aid, climbing up off the floor and rubbing his aft where he had fallen on it. “_What happened to it?_”

“More importantly,” said Bluestreak, “what happened to _Trailcutter?_” He pointed at the spot that had previously been occupied by the black bot and his datapad. “He can’t have decided to start playing hide and seek, ‘cos there’s nowhere to hide on this boat.”

“And where did the _control yoke_ go?” asked Mainframe nervously. “I can’t steer without it!”

~

“Bonecrusher, give Mixmaster back his thingy,” instructed Long Haul.

“_I didn’t take it!_”

“Yes you did!” accused Mixmaster, pointing angrily. “When the lights went off, you took my thingy! Give it back!”

“I _can’t_ give it back, because I don’t _have_ it! Hey, stop that!” Bonecrusher’s last protest was directed at Long Haul, who had stuck a hand inside his personal subspace and was rummaging around. It tickled. He swatted his brother’s hand away. “There’s nothing in there! I told you, I didn’t take it!”

“_Guys!_” called Hook, causing them all to jump. “Quit your arguing and listen to this! I found out what these things are! They’re _Cyber Planet Keys!_ Bond markers! We can cash in favors with the _space mafia_ with these!” He smiled excitedly and held up his blue one… just as the lights went out.

“Uh, Hook?” asked Long Haul when the lights came back on. “How are we going to cash in favors with the space mafia… if we _don’t have anything_ to cash in favors with?”

The chest of Cyber Planet Keys had vanished, and so had the one in Hook’s hand. (Mixmaster immediately blamed Bonecrusher.) The floor panel that had been pulled off was also nowhere to be seen. So was…

“My datapad!” exclaimed Mixmaster. “It’s gone, too! I know Boney didn’t take that; he can’t read!”

~

Things were disappearing throughout the _Turben_. That much was clear.

First Aid tried to remain calm, but it was hard when medical equipment, entire bots, and even pieces of _the shuttle itself_ were vanishing left and right every time the lights flickered out. Up in the cockpit, Mainframe was panicking at the chunks of console that were no longer there, thus resulting in absolutely no way to steer or radio for help. _Perfect_, the medic thought. They were dead in the water, drifting through open space in a disintegrating shuttle.

The lights flickered off. Suddenly, Mainframe stopped panicking.

In fact, there was now no Mainframe around to panic.

First Aid suddenly heard a very muffled, vaguely rhythmic sound coming from somewhere next to him. He turned and found Bluestreak with his hands to his audials. “Is… is that coming from you?” he asked.

“What?” asked the blue bot, turning a dial on the side of his head. The sound became quieter.

“Huh. So it _was_ coming from you. What was that?”

“Another One Bites the Dust. Queen. 1980. I blast it on full internal volume in times like this- times when stuff vanishes rapidly without a trace.”

“That’s… an oddly specific scenario to save a song for.”

“I’ve got a song for _every_ scenario.”

The lights flickered off.

And now there were no more lights to flicker off, because they, along with the rest of the _Turben_, had vanished. First Aid, Bluestreak, and a short distance away, the Constructicons, now all floated freely through the inky black curtain of space, among various pieces of bric-a-brac that had been deemed worthy of remaining visible.

“Do you have a song for _this?_” the medic asked dryly.

“Do You Realize. The Flaming Lips. 2002. Want a listen?”

“No.”

~

Hook screamed.

Bonecrusher tried to swim through space. Even though he scientifically couldn’t, he kept trying.

Mixmaster and Long Haul reclined as best they could and observed the constellations.

All in all, the Constructicons took the disappearance of the _Turben_ much better than anyone really expected.

This went on for an hour.

~

Finally, everything had returned. The _Turben_ was back in one piece, Trailcutter and Mainframe were alive, and First Aid found his medical kit under the bench where he had left it. He was currently using it to examine his shipmates.

“What happened?” he asked Trailcutter as he prodded the black bot with a tool. “Where did you and Mainframe go? Was it the same place that the shuttle went? Were you exposed to open space? Open space is very bad for your energon conduits if you’re exposed to it for too long. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I’m _fine_,” Trailcutter protested, gently swatting the medic’s hands away and offering a reassuring smile. “Don’t fuss so much.”

“Sorry. It’s just… I was worried about you.”

“So was I. One minute everything was fine, then the feeling in my feet stopped, then the feeling in my _everything_ stopped.” First Aid knelt to examine Trailcutter’s feet, wary of the guns in the latter’s legs. “I remember… what _do_ I remember? Uh… I remember a vague sensation like floating in open space, except it wasn’t open space, because I couldn’t see any stars. I couldn’t feel my own plating. I couldn’t sense _anything_; none of my sensors were picking up any input. It was like being in a sensory deprivation chamber. A sensory deprivation chamber in which you _didn’t exist_.”

“I think…” puzzled Mainframe, feeling himself up, “I think… that might be exactly what happened. I think we just up and flat-out stopped existing.”

“But _why?_” asked Bluestreak. “Why was it you two and the shuttle that got the nonexistence end of the stick?”

“That’s a terrible way of putting it,” said First Aid, putting his tools away. “Well, whatever the reason, the universe seems to have restored your state of being properly. I can’t find anything abnormal or harmful in you guys’ systems; you’re both perfectly healthy.”

“Thanks, doc,” Trailcutter said.

Something pinged at the control console, prompting Mainframe to return to his position behind it. “Transmission from Rodimus!” he called back. “Everyone’s to touch down on that nearby planet- Ofsted XVII- and await a regroup. Maybe we’ll get our explanation as to what happened while we’re there, too.”

“Sounds good,” said First Aid. “I’ll let the Constructicons know.” He couldn’t ignore checking up on them, especially considering the shenanigans he had glimpsed them getting up to while floating about. Ignoring Bluestreak’s mumble of disapproval that the ex-Decepticons were still around, the medic opened the door to the back hold… and was greeted with a highly unusual sight.

Bonecrusher and Mixmaster were holding down a resistant Long Haul. Hook stood trying to shove something gray and rectangular into the tall green bot’s personal subspace. Stray Cyber Planet Keys littered the floor.

As soon as they heard the door open, the Constructicons all whipped their heads around to stare awkwardly at First Aid.

First Aid stared awkwardly back at the Constructicons.

~

“Sorry you had to see that,” Long Haul said.

The _Turben_ had finally touched down on a mountain outcropping surrounded by trees and ruins- ruins that he and First Aid were now exploring at the behest of the rest of the crew. Long Haul himself had wanted to stay and watch the sunrise, under the guise of keeping an eye on the other three Constructicons, but he had been vetoed at the last second.

“It’s fine,” replied First Aid, running his hand over a stone wall whose carvings had been destroyed. “It’s certainly not the _weirdest_ thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I don’t know why Hook insists that we keep the Cyber Planet Keys. It’s not like we’re going to actually run into the space mafia anytime soon.”

“You never know.”

The pair lapsed into an almost companionable silence as they continued exploring. Long Haul gave First Aid a hand in lifting heavy rubble from time to time as they made their way further into the ruins. They eventually emerged into what appeared to be a destroyed amphitheater, filled with piles of rubble that looked oddly like chairs. An inspection from the medic revealed that they were indeed chairs. Long Haul, for his part, found a bent and burnt plague still clinging to a blaster-pocked wall that read “Tamizdat Lecture Theater.”

“First Aid?” Long Haul hazarded after a minute.

“Yeah?” said First Aid, hunched over a stack of ruined desks.

“I’d never tell Ratchet this or he’d laugh me out of the medibay, but… I want to be a _medic_.”

First Aid sat up. “You do?”

“Yeah. It hasn’t always been a dream of mine, but I’ve seen the kind of shenanigans us Constructicons have gotten ourselves into in the past. And with the Scavenger incident that happened recently, when he got himself hurt… it’s kinda gotten me thinking that I’d like to take more of a part in keeping the team _well_. I can’t do that, though, when my medical skills amount to just slapping a piece of plating over it and letting _time_ do the _rest_.”

“No offense, but you’re actually one of the last bots I expected to want to go into the medical field.”

“You and functionism both, doc.”

“I’m not complaining, though. I’m actually kind of glad. The universe could always use more medics; too many broken bots out there and not enough willing to fix them. It’s an extremely difficult field to get into, but if you’re serious about it-”

“I’m super serious.”

“- then I’d be happy to maybe train you once this whole mess is over, if you’d like- I’d just need to get Ratchet’s approval first.”

Long Haul lit up. “Really?!” he practically squealed.

“If you’re willing to build your skills from the ground up, put in a lot of long hours and hard work, and get used to the feel of energon on your hands, then… yes, really,” replied First Aid. His expression changed as something caught his optic, something trapped beneath a large piece of rubble. He motioned for Long Haul to remove it. “Scratch that,” he said. “I’d be happy to train you _now_. Want a hands-on lesson, Long Haul? Grab my medical kit.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Long Haul, handing over the requested item. “What _is_ that?”

First Aid beckoned the tall green bot over to observe the readouts on a medical screen. “See these?” He pointed to three sets of numbers on the side of the screen. “Energon levels, spark output, and closeness to zero point. Notice how they’re all small numbers? That’s what’s the matter. They’re far too low, and that’s no good.”

“I figured as much.”

“As for what this- he- is… he’s _Cybertronian_, he’s _scorched_, and he’s _fading fast_. Call the others.”

~

“What have you _done?!_”

First Aid had returned to the ruined theater with Trailcutter and even more medical equipment, only to find that Mainframe, Bluestreak, and Long Haul had shifted the injured bot he had found earlier, propping him up on a mostly-intact chair. The side effect was that he was now emitting what sounded scarily like a death rattle. Long Haul looked the most embarrassed about it, Mainframe and Bluestreak less so.

“You _moved_ him!” the medic shouted. “Why did you move him? Lesson three, Long Haul- you should _never_ move a leaker! Not without a doctor present!”

“Um… yeah. He does seem to be in some discomfort. My bad,” said Long Haul.

First Aid knelt in front of the injured bot, medical screen in hand. “Aw guys, I know you meant well, but you’ve made it _worse_. He had _hours_, now he’s got _minutes!_ Why did you move him…?”

Bluestreak shrugged. “I don’t know, I- thought I might find his badge…?”

“But why?” aksed Trailcutter, helping First Aid set up some larger pieces of medical equipment. “The war’s _over_. It doesn’t matter if he’s a Decepticon, does it?”

Bluestreak threw a dirty look at Long Haul that went unnoticed. “S’pose not…” he grumbled.

“And even if he _was_ a ‘Con, what would you do, _withhold treatment?_ Because c’mon, Blue- that’s _never_ been an option. Not even in wartime.”

“He needs an emergency transfusion,” First Aid announced, still looking concernedly at his medical screen.

“Energon?” asked Long Haul.

“_Active_ energon. Ready-circulated- direct from the donor.”

“Ah. The hard stuff,” said Trailcutter.

First Aid continued, “_Eight fluid drams_ should be enough to save him. We’ll donate two each.”

Mainframe put a hand on his hip strut. “Er- do we get a _choice?_” he asked. “Two drams is two drams. And isn’t there a risk of _spark failure_ if you donate too much too fast? Spark failure or brain damage? I heard there was a risk.”

“There’s no risk,” assured First Aid.

…

“Okay, so there _might_ be a risk. But two drams is _nothing_.”

“What if we reduced the risk by only donating _one_ each?” asked Long Haul.

“He’ll die on only four,” the medic replied. “I thought you wanted to _save_ bots?”

“I do! But if there’s a risk in donating that much, then we’ll simply get some other bots to donate along with us.”

“Where are we going to find other bots to donate?” asked Bluestreak, who was crouched to the floor and sifting through the detritus for… something. Long Haul simply stood with his hands on his hip struts, staring at the blue bot as if he should know the answer already. Everyone else picked up on it before he did.

“Oh. _Them_.”

~

“Stop all the clocks, the cavalry has arrived!” called Hook, flourishing dramatically as he, Bonecrusher, and Mixmaster entered the theater. “And just in time, too, it looks like. Did Dancing Bot and the other guy tap out?”

“They did,” said Long Haul. “They found this fellow’s face on the ground, and when it grew spikes, they changed their minds about donating energon. Thought he was a _Decepticon_.”

“A spiked face?” asked Bonecrusher.

“A Decepticon?” asked Mixmaster. The pair shared a glance of worry.

“Yes, and maybe,” said Trailcutter, jostling a different datapad in his hands. “Apparently they still think that faction loyalties are a priority.”

Hook rubbed his head. “But they’re not anymore, right?”

“That’s what _I_ told them.”

“I don’t see why they’d be so… _clingy_ to that idea. I mean, look at us.” Hook gestured to himself and the other Constructicons. “Up until pretty recently, we were some of the staunchest Decepticons around, until we met Prowl. If we can look past badges, why can’t they?”

“_Focus_, Hook,” chided Long Haul. “We’ve got to act fast, or this Cybertronian will die.”

Trailcutter pinched his chin as he tried to do some quick mental math. “Let’s see… six of us… eight drams of energon needed… how many would that be each, First Aid? First Aid…?”

“I knew he was a Decepticon,” said the medic in a low voice. “I’ve known from the moment we examined his spark casing. Decepticons use their casing to make their badge, and- it was obvious. If that changes things- the fact that I knew… if that changes things and you want to walk, Trailcutter, I completely understand.”

But the black bot was not to be swayed. “I repeat, how many would that be each?”

First Aid sighed as Long Haul hooked up an energon transfer tube to first the wounded bot’s chest, then his. “… 1.3 each,” the medic replied. “But Mainframe did talk about risks. And those risks _multiply_ if-”

“You’re not particularly _fuel-efficient_ in the first place. Yeah, figured as much.”

“Second thoughts?” asked Long Haul. “I can always donate your portion, if you want.”

Trailcutter chuckled. “Second, and third, and fourth- but I’ll get over ‘em. If you can save a life, you can save a life. Isn’t that what this is all about?”

The energon began to flow between First Aid and the wounded bot. “Know what?” the medic said. “You’re wasted as chief of security.”

“Heh. ‘Til recently I was just _wasted_.” He handed the new datapad to Mixmaster.

The datapad contained a fully booted translation program, evidently salvaged from miraculously still intact technology from the theater. Mixmaster wondered what use translation equipment had in a medical scenario, until his audials picked up a very faint muttering coming from the wounded bot. It sounded like… Old Cybertronian. He held the microphone portion of the datapad close to the patient, where it picked up two repeated phrases issuing forth. “Primus spare my spark,” and…

“First Aid!” he cried. “He’s saying ‘_find, kill, cleanse!_’ Pull out! Pull out!”

First Aid did immediately, causing the patient to scream in agony. Through the screams, Trailcutter asked, “What’s the matter? Why did you-? Why did you pull out? He’s in _pain_, First Aid! Why did you pull out?”

First Aid’s visor narrowed and his voice took on a bitter tone as he said, “Because he’s a member of the _Decepticon Justice Division_. A _new one_, I guess, but-”

“_Find, kill, cleanse_\- that’s their _motto_,” Bonecrusher cut in. “Back during Megatron’s trial, Dirge, Mix, and I were talking about the rumor going around that the D.J.D had gotten some fresh energon. A bot with a face that made spikes- and I think that this might be _him_.” He pointed at the roughly triangular piece of sentio metallico on the floor, out of which several long, nasty spikes and drills protruded. The bot’s face…

“Okay, so he’s up there with the worst of the worst,” said Trailcutter, “but we’ve started this- we’ve got to see it through.”

“Do we?” countered First Aid. “I was stationed at _Delphi_\- the med-center on Messatine. D.J.D territory. I’ve seen what they do to people. They turned _Pharma_ against us- drove him insane. And if he hadn’t gone mad, _Ambulon_ wouldn’t have died…”

Long Haul stepped in. “They hunt bots down like _beasts_, Autobots and Decepticons alike. They torture them in ways that most would think impossible just because they fell out of line. Healing one of them would be like healing a _sparkeater_.”

“But- you’re a _doctor_,” Trailcutter protested. “You can’t in good conscience-”

First Aid stood up, stepped back, and crossed his arms. “Not in good conscience, no. But if the price of letting a mass murderer die is a lifetime of guilt, I’m prepared to pay it.”

“Maybe sometimes the way to save lives is to let one _slip_,” said Long Haul, moving to join First Aid. “I’m out, too.”

“Make that three,” piped up Mixmaster.

“The number that comes after three,” said Bonecrusher. “Oh- _four_.”

“And me,” said Hook. “If he woke up to see us associating with you, he’d put us on the List and rip our plating off- and if we’re lucky, he’d do it in that order.”

Trailcutter knelt down to pick up the abandoned end of the energon transfer tube and hooked it into his chest, continuing the flow of energon and thus quieting the D.J.D bot’s screams. “Fine,” the black bot grumbled. “I’ll do it myself.

“It seems to be working,” he said after a short while. “He certainly _looks_ healthier, although… urgh… this actually isn’t that _pleasant_.” Indeed, he looked like he would purge his fuel tanks at any second. “How will I know when I’ve given enough?”

“I’m… not sure,” replied First Aid. “I guess he’ll find a way to tell you.”

That way was strangling, apparently.

All of a sudden, the D.J.D bot’s hand went straight for Trailcutter’s neck and held on with a strength that belied his skinny frame. His optics glowed a fearsome red, full of murderous intent. A stream of Old Cybertronian came forth, almost as if he was _thanking_ Trailcutter for healing him. Trailcutter accepted the thanks by firing his leg guns, knocking the D.J.D bot back into a wall. Both bots fell to the ground heavily.

“Get back! I got this!” somebody shouted. Bonecrusher rushed to the front of the huddled group and held his arms parallel to the ground, pointed at the prone form of the D.J.D bot. A pair of panels popped open to reveal…

“**Boney, _no!_**” cried Long Haul. But it was too late.

Trailcutter barely had time to throw up a panic bubble around himself before the missiles exploded on contact with the D.J.D bot, destroying him and one of the theater’s walls in a brilliant flash of red, orange, and yellow. The whole building rumbled; chunks of stone fell heavily from the ceiling. The theater was coming down.

First Aid was left to cry out Trailcutter’s name as the Constructicons shunted him toward the exit corridor. As a unit, they all converted to their alt modes and rushed out of the crumbling theater as fast as they could. It wasn’t long before they just barely escaped, but even then, they didn’t stop- they kept going until they reached the _Turben_, where Mainframe and Bluestreak stood with frightened concern on their faces.

The group of bots watched the theater succumb to gravity in a cloud of dust.

“Trailcutter…?” asked Mainframe in a small voice.

Long Haul rounded on Bonecrusher, striking him in the chest and causing him to fall. “_Bonecrusher!_ What in the Pit were you _thinking?!_” he shouted.

“He attacked Trailcutter! I was trying to defend him!” Bonecrusher wailed, holding up an arm to try and defend himself.

The tall green bot struck again. “By shooting large-scale demolition missiles? You could have brought the whole theater down on top of us! You could have _killed us!_ And you probably killed Trailcutter! Some defending you did!”

“I’m sorry!” cried the bulldozer, optical gauze overheating. “He attacked my friend! I only wanted to help!”

“Well, you’ve done the complete opposite of help! Have you any idea the negative scope of what you’ve just done? You’ve _killed a member of the D.J.D_, with a model of missile only _you_ possess. They’re going to find that out. They’re going to find out that you and I and the others have defected. They’re going to put us on the List. They’re going to hunt us down. And they’re going to _kill_ us.

“Bonecrusher… you’ve just signed the Constructicons’ _death warrants_.”

~

Trailcutter raised his head from where he had been covering it with his hands, close to the ground. He half expected to find himself dead, but then he remembered his panic bubble’s rules- nothing comes in, nothing goes out. The emergency force field had completely sheltered him from the collapse of the theater, from the falling rubble. He was still alive. Weak and very shaken, but alive.

He was about to thank his lucky stars for surviving and start coming up with some choice words for Bonecrusher once he rejoined the others, but a sound from behind him interrupted that.

The sound, well, sounded… an awful lot like a transformation noise.

“_Thanks, buddy_.”

The black bot whipped around to see a tall maroon bot looming over him, a wicked grin stretched beneath pitch-black optics. Arcs of electricity ran up and down his arms, and blue sparks flashed around his fingertips. “Your force field energy was just the kick I needed to start repairing myself,” the bot said in an oily voice. “That deserves a _reward_.”

He reached down swiftly with an electric hand and pulled off Trailcutter’s shoulder plating.

Trailcutter’s vision exploded with pain.

His wheel was the next to go, then his bicep plating, then his forearm plating. His internal wiring and energon conduits screamed every time the other bot’s fingers shocked them. It was terribly methodical. And the other bot looked like he was savoring it.

“Stop… please…” Trailcutter wheezed weakly.

The other bot moved to the chest plating. “Why should I?” he asked. “You’re an associate of the one who killed Vos.” Off with the backpack pipes.

“Nngh! Because… the war’s… _over!_ I’m… not your enemy… anymore- _aargh!_” That was part of his spark casing.

“The war’s not over until Megatron says it’s over.” The neck plating.

“He… did- _hggk_.” His vocal modulator dangled from the other bot’s hand, dripping energon.

“_Ha!_ I don’t think so.”

Trailcutter weakly pointed at his personal datapad, the one with _Towards Peace, Postwar Edition_ open on it. It was all he could do to tell the other bot to look. It seemed to work- the other bot glanced quickly at it, quirking an eyebrow as he caught the title.

“All right, all right. I’ll look. One thing at a time, though…”

The last thing Trailcutter saw was the other bot’s madly grinning visage before a pair of electrified fingers jammed themselves into his visor.

~

Kaon picked up the datapad with energon-covered hands. “_Postwar Edition_…” he mumbled to himself, intrigued by the title. There was only one edition of _Towards Peace_. There only ever _needed_ to be one edition. But now there was an addendum that had been uploaded scarcely a month ago. He accessed it.

…

He tapped his built-in radio. “Helex, you up there? It’s Kaon, requesting _remote collection_. I’ve got some information regarding some folks we know that I think you might be interested in…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised, the constructicons have officially started trying to make other friends  
i'm not so happy with this one. for some reason, i found it very difficult to incorporate the constructicons' banter and general silliness with the seriousness of the issue this chapter drew from without it feeling forced. i think i'm better at writing angsty jackasses than i am at writing humor. plus, i procrastinated in writing, leaving me with not as much time to write as i probably should have spent.  
that said, there are still some moments i'm happy with. i really enjoyed writing first aid geeking out about the cyber planet keys (which _will_ be important later, i promise) and his exchange with long haul about becoming a medic. i also really enjoyed writing bluestreak elaborating on his past and giving him a more concrete reason to dislike the constructicons.  
up next: the greatest autobot who ever died


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTERLUDE: In which the _Lost Light_ers have a party, a funeral, an uprising, and a few bad drinks.

“’A _pre-wake_, Rodimus? What’s a pre-wake?’

“It’s the _in-thing_, is what it is. It’s a _party_\- a way of celebrating someone’s life before they become one with the _Afterspark_. Ten minutes ago we were invited to our first pre-wake. A pre-wake in honor of… wait for it… starts with a ‘T’…

“**_Thunderclash!_**

“Because _that’s right_\- we’ve _found_ him. We have 100% _tracked him down!_ In other words… _we’ve achieved something._ Everyone- turn to your left, shake hands with the person next to you, and say, ‘well done.’ … Okay, it’s not gonna work if _everyone_ turns to their left…

“Don’t get me wrong- nobody _wants_ Thunderclash to die. I wouldn’t want anyone here to mistake my _grief_ for _giddy excitement_. But the fact is, we all knew Thunders was on borrowed time. He’s been living with a _fatal injury_ for years now- he just refused to let _impending death_ interrupt his _derring-do_. Having said that, it looks like his derring-do…”

“Don’t even say it.”

“… is derring-_done_.

“We’re six hours away from the _Vis Vitalis_. Time to _smarten up_, people. If you want to break out your Rodimus Stars, go ahead. What matters is you look your best- and you do your co-captain proud!”

~

“How do you get away with it?”

Prowl stood in the back corridors of the _Lost Light_ following the captain’s speech about the pre-wake, arms crossed in confrontation. Rodimus looked surprised to see him at first, but that surprise quickly gave way to his usual smugly confident demeanor.

“Megatron asked me the same thing not five minutes ago. I told him I get away with it the same way you get away with trying to break the only rules you’ve been given on this ship. He told me about you talking to Chromedome, you know. That was the only rule I specifically set for you, and you broke it.”

“That was because there was important information he needed to know.”

“Uh-huh. _Sure_. What about you trying to access security footage? Any ‘important information’ involved there?”

“Yes, actually, but that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about, how do you get away with outright _lying_ to your crew? This pre-wake isn’t about honoring Thunderclash; this is about satisfying _you_. Fate’s given you an opportunity to indulge your ego, and you’re running with it. With him dying, there’ll be no one left to encroach on your precious quest. You’ll be free from the shadow of the greatest Autobot who ever lived.”

Rodimus put a hand to his chestplate and adopted a dramatic expression. “_Lies!_” he cried. “Lies and slander! I should have you thrown in the brig for blasphemy!”

Prowl quirked an eyebrow. Rodimus holding a god complex wouldn’t surprise him at this point. “Then how come you aren’t going to the pre-wake?” he asked.

“Because I’m busy.”

“Is _that_ what you’re calling it?”

“Yes it is and I’m sticking to it.”

“Fine. Though I can’t say I blame you- it would be nice to spend some time in the quiet, what with all the catastrophes that have been going on.”

“Agreed. But unfortunately, you’re going to be far from the quiet. On captain’s orders, you’re going to the pre-wake.”

Prowl’s frown deepened. “I refuse.”

“You can’t!”

“Yes I can.”

“The whole point of you coming on the _Lost Light_ was so you can forge new relationships! Meet new bots! And instead you’ve been sulking in your hab-suite almost constantly since the day we took off. That has got to change, Prowl! You’re _going_ to that pre-wake, and you’re _not_ coming back until you’ve made at least one new friend.”

“That wasn’t the point! The point of me coming on here was my punishment!”

Rodimus threw his hands out wide. “Exactly!”

~

“Ratchet?”

Ratchet turned his head from where he was rooting through cabinets to see First Aid standing in the doorway of the medibay, looking a bit more nervous than usual. “First Aid!” he greeted. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my repair spider is, would you?”

The young medic opened a different cabinet, lower to the floor, and retrieved a small metal column with eight thin appendages jutting off from its top diameter, each one tipped with a different micro-sized medical instrument. He handed it over with a slightly shaky hand. “Here. Do you have a minute before you go off to the party? I promise I won’t take long.”

“Thanks,” said the chief medical officer, placing the device in its proper cabinet. “Actually, I’m not going. Spent so much time picking up during the war that I’ve quite forgotten how to put it down on the floor. What’s on your mind?”

First Aid looked down at his feet. “I…” He seemed hesitant to say it. “… I don’t think I’m cut out to become chief medical officer.”

Ratchet leaned against one of the medical berths, a concerned scowl on his face. “This is new. First you won’t stop hounding me about being appointed, and now you don’t want to be appointed?”

“It’s not that I don’t want it… it’s that I don’t think I _deserve_ it. Bots have _died_ because of me, Ratchet, because I didn’t do anything to help them. Trailcutter was just the latest- I didn’t go back to save him from the collapsing theater. Good doctors don’t let bots die like that.”

“Do you think good doctors save every single bot they come across? … Do you think _I’ve_ saved every single bot that fell on my medical berth?”

“Well-”

“Because that’s false. Many bots that I worked on died under my scalpel, more than I care to admit. Bots die, even with the best of doctors tending to them. It’s tragic, yes, but it’s a fact of life.”

First Aid looked up at Ratchet, an expression of despair on his face. “But at least you _tried_ to save them! I _didn’t_ try! Not for Trailcutter, or Ambulon, and I actively pulled the trigger on Pharma! I’ve taken more lives lately than I’ve saved. And that’s no good for a chief medical officer.” He glanced over to the medical insignia on his left shoulder. “… That’s no good for a medic, period.”

Ratchet placed a hand on First Aid’s left shoulder, in a mirror of the gesture that the young medic did frequently for everyone else on the _Lost Light_. “Look, kid. Being a doctor isn’t about constant huge displays of improbable life-saving. Most of the time it’s about the little things you _can_ do. Patching up a burst energon conduit, replacing broken plating, reattaching a limb. It’s those little things that add up to make bots better. That’s what being a medic is about, and you’ve done a fantastic job of it.

“Yes, sometimes you’re going to fail. Sometimes you won't even get the opportunity to try. It’s going to hurt. Everyone fails. And it’s okay to be concerned about the possibility. But you can’t get hung up on your failures when they happen, and you can’t want to quit because of them. If bots quit every time they failed, no one would get anywhere.”

The despair disappeared from First Aid, although he still seemed sad. “Okay,” he said quietly. “_Thanks_, Ratchet.”

“Any time.”

“I, um… I think I’m ready to prepare Ambulon’s funeral now. Thanks, by the way, for not burying him on Luna 1.”

“Of course. I don’t think he’d like that very much.”

“Can… can we do it at the same time as Trailcutter’s?”

“I’ll ask Rodimus.”

~

“Bluestreak?”

Hoist found his friend- calling him that had been a charity all throughout this leg of the voyage- en route to one of the shuttles that the _Lost Light_ers would take to board the _Vis Vitalis_, lugging the jukebox from Swerve’s behind him. His hesitant greeting caught the blue bot by surprise- he straightened and accidentally dropped the jukebox on his foot, setting him off on a colorful swearing spree.

“Hoist!” he said once he had stopped swearing. “Hi! Knock next time, would you please?”

“What are you doing?”

“It’s a party! These _Vis Vitalis_ weirdos have never had the chance to put The Ramones on during a party, and that’s something they’ve just _gotta_ experience! Mind getting the other end of this for me?” Bluestreak stooped to lift the fallen jukebox back upright.

“I’m not going.”

“What? But it’s a party!”

“Parties aren’t my scene; I tend to be a bit of a _wallflower_.”

“There’ll be _Camiens_ there!” Bluestreak said, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “I’ve never been with a Camien before; hopefully they’ll be a nice change of pace from Tyroxians. Did I ever show you the scar from where one bit me?” He raised his right arm to point out a large, bite mark-shaped scar just below his armpit.

“I’m not interested in hooking up either. There’s another funeral going on soon that I’d rather spend my time at tonight.”

“I’m hurt. You’d rather hang out with corpses than with your best friend at a hot party with hot bots.”

Hoist shook his head. “Oh Bluestreak, you’re my friend, for sure, but you’re not my _best_ friend. _Trailcutter_ is… or he _was_. I want to pay my respects to him before anything else. Maybe afterward I’ll join you at the pre-wake, but not right away. Not now.”

Bluestreak’s face fell. “Oh. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to not knowing.” It was during times like this when the green towbot wished he had something more enticing to his name than just “that green towbot.” If he was more interesting, then maybe people would be more willing to engage with him, instead of leaving him alone in favor of the likes of Thunderclash’s infinitely more glamorous clique.

“No, it’s not.” The blue bot caught the attention of a passing Grapple. “Take this on ahead of me, would you?” he asked, tapping the now-upright jukebox. Grapple complied, easily hefting the thing over one shoulder before boarding the shuttle. Bluestreak then stepped to join Hoist. “I know what it’s like to have someone close go un-mourned by the masses, and I’ll be Pit-bound before I’ll let that happen to one of my friends. I’ll go with you.”

Though surprised that the usually brash, talkative, and silly Bluestreak was suddenly considering his own feelings, Hoist smiled appreciatively behind his mouthplate. He reconsidered his earlier thoughts; ever since boarding, Bluestreak _had_ made efforts to become his friend, despite his overwhelming ordinary-ness. Even if those efforts had been unusual or uncomfortable, like the grand unveiling of the jukebox or the attempt just now to entice him to the pre-wake with the potential for hookups, at least Bluestreak had tried. Which was a lot more than most bots around here had done.

Hoist found that maybe his and Bluestreak’s use of the word “friend” was genuine after all.

“Thanks, Bluestreak.”

~

For something announced at the last second, Trailcutter’s Act of Transition was surprisingly well-attended. There were many faces in the seated crowd that First Aid recognized. Hoist, Bluestreak, Tailgate, Chromedome, Jackpot, Mainframe, Grotusque, Skids. Even _Whirl_ was there, and Whirl was a notorious funeral-skipper. That gave the young medic a strange sense of comfort. And of course, up at the front of the impromptu assembly, behind the podium, was Rodimus, decked out in the elaborate trappings he had donned during the funeral following the Overlord disaster. Advocate Xaaron was by his side.

Trailcutter had not been a religious bot, but he had never told anyone how he’d like to be put to rest, so a Primalist funeral, simple and non-extravagant, had ended up being the consensus for the ceremony. The black bot lay as peacefully as a mangled corpse could in an open coffin, hands crossed over his bare and empty spark casing. One of them seemed to have been tampered with post-death, but the other gently clutched a shiny golden Rodimus Star.

Across from Trailcutter, Ambulon’s similarly mangled corpse lay in an identical coffin. Ambulon had believed in preserving bodies in exactly the state in which they had died, including his own. The recollection of his old boss’ beliefs made First Aid give a sad wince; had the other medic found out what had been done to his corpse on Luna 1, he’d have blown a gasket.

But at least it was nice to finally give him some closure.

“Thanks for coming, Ratchet,” First Aid whispered to the chief medical officer sitting next to him. “I know funerals aren’t really your scene.”

“It beats listening to loud music in a hot room,” Ratchet whispered back. “Too much like Rodimus’ quarters.”

“Gathered friends,” said Rodimus, trying for solemnness but failing due to fiddling with the collar of his cloak, “tonight is a night of _remembrance_. A night to honor those important souls who have fallen behind, whose light has been lost. Not Thunderclash- he’s not dead yet- but _Trailcutter_ and _Ambulon_, two bots who honored us with their presence and enriched our lives during their all-too-short stay with us. Tonight, we will see them home to the Afterspark.

“I’m told that Hoist would like to say a few words for Trailcutter. Hoist?” With a gesture and an aside step, the captain beckoned the green towbot up to take his place behind the podium. Hoist did so with a visible degree of nervousness. After a sigh, he began.

“Trailcutter of Altihex was many things to many of us. A _drunk_, a _complainer_, a _one-trick pony_. But to me, he was my _best friend_. We went from awkward hab-suite mates to… well, to something more. He was one of the first bots in a long time to take a genuine interest in me. I appreciate him for that. I always will. I just wish I could have spent more time with him before his death than I did… and looking back, I can’t help but to feel that maybe somewhere along the ley line I ended up _contributing_ to the resentment I know he felt sometimes. I’m sad to see him go, as I’m sure we all are. Sleep tight, Trailcutter.”

As Hoist stepped down from the podium, Rodimus stepped to the foot of Trailcutter’s coffin. Barring the half of the Matrix that had been used last time- and since been destroyed- he held a hand over the black bot’s body and recited the traditional Primalist incantation-

“_I commend your spark to the Allspark, and the Allspark is one spark, and the one spark is your spark, and in this way we are all connected_.”

“_And in this way we are all connected_,” echoed the assembled bots.

“And now First Aid has offered to give Ambulon’s eulogy,” continued the captain, gesturing to the now-empty podium.

“Go on, kid,” encouraged Ratchet, giving First Aid a gentle nudge with his elbow.

Oh Primus, the crowd was a lot bigger than expected. And they all expected him to say something _meaningful_. First Aid gripped the podium’s sides much harder than he intended to. He wasn’t used to being eloquent; he was used to giving facts directly, as befitting his job.

Maybe he’d do that. Maybe he’d be direct in his eulogy.

He began.

“I… don’t have a huge amount to say. I looked up to Ambulon. I thought the _world_ of him. He was the bot who inspired me to stay at Delphi for so long. He was a _gearstick_, especially to me; he kept calling me a bundle of quirks. Despite that- or maybe because of it- I wanted to make him _proud_. I thought that by becoming Ratchet’s apprentice, he might finally see me as a worthwhile doctor.” He choked. “Now he’s _dead_. Now I’ll never know if I ever did make him proud… _I’m sorry, I can’t do this_.”

First Aid hid his visor in the crook of his elbow and rushed from the podium, well aware of the optics of the crowd following him back to his seat.

~

Prowl and the Constructicons had hitched a ride on a shuttle to the pre-wake following Trailcutter’s funeral. The party was in full swing when they arrived. Bright lights flashed everywhere, coloring the bots below all manner of vibrant hues and strange shades. Sentio metallico gyrated to the heavy beat of music that hurt Prowl’s audials. The room was hot and muggy. All in all, the black-and-white bot completely failed to see the appeal of such a party, but the Constructicons stared in wide-optic wonder, trying to take it all in.

“Now _this_ is a proper party!” said Hook.

“It’s so much different from the ones we used to have with the Decepticons!” said Mixmaster.

“Yeah!” agreed Bonecrusher. “This one doesn’t have gladiatorial combat or blood sport! I _hate_ it!”

Long Haul pointed. “Hook, Scavenger, look! Dancing Bot is dancing again!” Indeed he was- Bluestreak was cutting a rug around an unfamiliar bot, probably one of Thunderclash’s crew. Not even Prowl’s observational abilities could predict which direction his limbs flailed in.

“Can we join him, Prowl?” asked Scavenger. “Please?”

“Yes,” said Prowl. “Go on, get. Enjoy the party.” He watched as the five green bots practically bolted toward the dance floor. He had not commanded them to join the party out of consideration for their entertainment; rather, he had commanded them so to get them away from him. He didn’t need them crowding about him and making an already uncomfortable scene even worse.

The black-and-white bot took an empty chair in a surprisingly vacant corner of the huge room. Unsurprisingly, almost nobody came to visit him, aside from a very drunk Camien who fingered his headlights uncomfortably. He considered joining the other wallflowers (he was impressed that Cyclonus managed to maintain his nap through all the noise), but ruled against it at the last second. He really just wanted to be by himself, Rodimus’ command be cursed.

“Hey, chief.”

Getaway took a seat next to Prowl, offering a tall mug. Prowl grunted in acceptance and took a sip, cocking an eyebrow in surprise. It was a Detonation Moon, a warm engex luxury beverage that had fallen out of availability shortly before the war. He had quite forgotten how good it tasted. “Thanks,” he said.

“Thank _Brainstorm_, he’s handing these out left and right.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It’s really not. He’s less the ‘another round on me’ type and more of the ‘another round on me, except I’ll pick the drinks because what I’ll pick is better than what you’ll pick and because I’m a genius’ type.”

“That’s… scarily accurate.”

“Detonation Moon _is_ a good pick, though.”

Prowl nodded and took another sip.

“Oh, hey! Skids and I found this one Camien that I think you’d like. Tall, red plating, lovely secondary anatomy. Kind of a stiff, though, but you know, so are you.”

“You mean the one with the flaming head that _everybody’s_ been flirting with?”

“… Yeah.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Not your speed, I get it. How about instead, you and I finish these drinks up and head out on the floor?”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m not interested in _any of this_. This pre-wake? It’s _pointless_. Just another stupid detour that we’ve taken at the whim of our easily-distracted captain, who I’m now fully convinced doesn’t actually care about this quest he keeps prattling about. At this rate, we’re all going to _shut down_ before we get within ten lightyears of his precious Cyberutopia.” Getaway laced his fingers as Prowl continued, “And on top of this ship being captained by a literal _protoform_, Megatron seems content to approve all these shenanigans, but you already know how I feel about him. It’s just… I can’t be the only one around here that thinks there’s something _wrong_ with all of this.”

“… You’re not.”

Prowl cocked an eyebrow.

“You’re not the only one who feels that way, Prowl,” Getaway continued. “Some friends and I… okay, mainly Atomizer and I… we think that Rodimus is a bad captain- like, _objectively_ bad- and that Megatron’s got no business being on the _Lost Light_. And the thing is, we thought _we_ were alone in thinking that. But a high-ranking, influential bot like you thinking the same way we do? You just might give us the boost we need to do something about it.”

“What are you saying, Getaway?”

Prowl couldn’t help but notice Getaway reaching for his lower leg plating. “What I’m saying- really, what I’m _asking_\- is…

“Where would you stand in the event of a _mutiny?_”

~

Blaster wasn’t usually one to tap out early during parties. But he had ended up hitching a ride with some other early abandoners back to the _Lost Light_ well before the festivities had even reached their midpoint. He had done what he had wanted to do almost right away.

The communications officer found himself back at hab-suite 015. He crouched down in front of Pipes’ memorial and placed something new among the knickknacks- a Velocitronian poker chip he had nicked from the _Vis Vitalis_. It was unspoken tradition following the Overlord disaster that every time the crew visited a new locale, they’d pick up some sort of souvenir and add it to the memorial, in honor of the blue minibot’s collection… the collection that he had been buried with upon their first return to Cybertron.

Blaster had been the last bot Pipes had spoken to before he died, and that fact had hit him hard. His constant adding to the memorial was his way of coping with the grief.

~

“Excuse me,” said Scavenger, “but are you the dedicated plating polisher I’ve heard about?”

The lanky bot with pale plating turned on his barstool to look at the small Constructicon. “I am indeed,” he replied. “Name’s Skimmer. There’s _nothing_ in the universe I can’t polish, from the lowliest knuckle joints to the plating of Thunderclash himself. You got it, I’ll polish it.”

“Perfect!” Scavenger pulled the scuffed and grimy golden mouthplate he had taken from the duplicate _Lost Light_ out of his personal subspace and held it out in offering. “I’m trying to get this spruced up as a present for my gestalt brother, but I can’t get it clean. Could you help?”

“Absolutely, positively,” said Skimmer, taking the mouthplate and immediately putting a cloth to its back side. “My, this one’s been through the ringer. Where’d you find it where it was so scuffed up?”

“On the floor.”

“That’d do it.” Something made a click, and Skimmer’s expression changed from a friendly one to a vaguely scared one. “Uh… question for you, friend. When you picked this up off the floor… did it have… _this_ on it?” He turned the mouthplate to show its back side to Scavenger, and the small Constructicon’s expression- or rough approximation thereof- shifted to match.

_That Decepticon symbol hadn’t been there before._

~

“Lemme tell you the story of the _mudshark_, baby.”

By some miracle, Bluestreak had actually managed to bring the Camien he had been pursuing all night to come back to the _Lost Light_ with him. Lickety-Split, her name was. She currently sat next to him in a slightly less crowded Swerve’s, sipping on the finest engex available there and listening to him tell her a story. She seemed unimpressed.

“This tastes like pure argon,” she said, grimacing into her cup. “Is this really the finest liquor this bar has to offer?”

“No,” said a voice from behind them, “_this_ is.” Brainstorm deposited a tall mug into the Camien’s lap; she took a swig from it and appeared much more satisfied. “Detonation Moon, thank me later.”

Bluestreak turned an annoyed glare on the teal bot. “Could you maybe not? We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“I _could_ not, but I _will_ not. As ship’s scientist, I can do whatever the Pit I like.”

“Ooh, a _scientist_,” crooned Lickety-Split.

“An _established_ scientist, too,” Brainstorm flirted, much to Bluestreak’s chagrin. “You’ve ever heard of some invention that doesn’t seem scientifically possible, chances are I’ve _made_ it scientifically possible.” He set a golden, rectangular object on the bar counter while exchanging what appeared to be an activated trigger for a little flask from his personal subspace. Lickety-Split continued to make goo-goo optics at him.

“What’s rule number three?” asked Bluestreak, trying to paint his apparent romantic rival in a bad light however he could. “_No briefcases_. Brainstorm, you can’t do that.”

“Really?” asked Brainstorm, unclasping his briefcase. “Didn’t I just say…”

He opened it.

“… that I can do whatever the Pit I like.”

He snapped his fingers.

The floor rushed up to meet Bluestreak.

“**_Sleep tight._**”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick psa! starting after this one, new chapters will be released every three weeks instead of every two, because upcoming content will be longer and more dense, and i want a little more time to write it well.  
the _sensuous frame_ two-parter was, to put it bluntly, a waste of two issues. it's telling that i managed to write in two days something i feel is more satisfying than what mr. roberts wrote in two months. i enjoyed writing the _lost light_ers giving due to their own dead, as well as prowl's commentary on just how pointless and stupid rodimus' latest detour is. (which may or may not also be my own feelings on this particular two-parter...) yes, i did move this chapter's events to a place earlier than they happened in the comic, but i thought that brainstorm poisoning both ships while they were all distracted would make his reveal as a decepticon more impactful.  
in this chapter's comments, please let me know what you think of the whole story so far! what do you like? what do you think i could improve on? what would you like to maybe see in the future of this fic? your feedback helps me write a better story, so please don't hold back.  
i love you all! please stay safe and healthy!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl is literally split between two lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Oh hey, you're finally back! I was beginning to think that the new schedule might've put you completely off. We've got some catching up to do, and I don't know if 5000 characters is gonna be enough to fill you completely in. So pull up a chair and strap in, I'm gonna try to make this as quick as possible.
> 
> "Long story short- Brainstorm's a Decepticon.
> 
> "Yeah, that's how I reacted too... at least that's how I _would_ have reacted, if I'd been conscious.
> 
> "See, ol' Brainstorm decided to make his grand announcement by poisoning almost everyone on both the _Lost Light_ and the _Vis Vitalis_-
> 
> "What's the _Vis Vitalis_? You're kidding, right? It's only the ship-sized life support of the greatest Autobot who ever lived- Thunderclash! Yeah, Rodimus and the gang finally found him like they said they were gonna do, what was it, about 11 chapters ago? Took 'em long enough... Anyway, yeah, so we finally caught up to ol' Thunders and his clique, only to find out that the big bot's due for a pre-wake.
> 
> "_Pre_-wake. With a 'P.'
> 
> "It's kinda this new hip death party thing where you dance your grief away before your dear one buys the farm. All the cool bots are doing it.
> 
> "So Thunderclash is due for a pre-wake, and the _V.V_ gang invited us over, so we're all like, 'Plan!' We went over... well, not all of us went over. A few stayed behind for some death parties of our own. I say death parties, when I really mean just regular old funerals, which you can have any ol' day, so why go to them instead of trying something new out and going to a pre-wake? Variety is the spice of life, after all; if you don't like variety, then you must like your chow pretty bland. And by chow, I mean life.
> 
> "I'm getting to that, I'm getting to that! Geez. So Brainstorm went over to the _V.V_ with the rest and started handing out drinks- which I objected to, naturally, since that's robbing me of a job! And what's worse, everyone who got a drink from him actually drank it! I can't really blame them, though; Detonation Moon is a great drink... but they should've known better than to accept liquor from an unlicensed distributor.
> 
> "What do you mean, I'm one to talk? I'm licensed! Really, I am!
> 
> "... Okay, maybe that's a lie... but at least _I_ don't go poisoning my customers!
> 
> "Yeah, Brainstorm poisoned the drinks he was handing out to everyone. Then when he opened up that briefcase of his- _bam!_ Everyone went down for the count, and he made his great escape while they were sleeping. (I honestly expected something more interesting in his case than a poison trigger...) Nobody quite knows where he's gone or what he's planning on doing, but I've got one or two ideas-
> 
> "Oh, you're not here for my ideas? You're here for Prowl? Rude.
> 
> "But fine. I think I'm done getting you up to speed, and- oh! It turns out that 5000 characters was more than enough after all, even with HTML! That's a lot of available space left over, though... be a shame to waste it...
> 
> "Okay, okay, _fine_. I'll stop talking and let you get to Prowl.
> 
> "But first... what can I get you?"

“Sir?”

Tyrest sighed at the umpteenth interruption from his assistant, Spanner. He couldn’t keep efficient track of the day’s shipments of spark crystals with all these interruptions; if he didn’t keep efficient track, then he couldn’t know if the shipments were safely on their way to the numerous Con Facilities across Cybertron. Sometimes he wished he could keep track of their progress as well, but he already had enough on his plate, so Spanner was the one in charge of that. To his credit, Spanner was very diligent in keeping up with the shipments’ progress, but that diligence came in the form of almost constant interruptions of Tyrest’s day.

“What is it, Spanner?” Tyrest asked, his baritone betraying his displeasure despite his best attempt. He ticked off on his datapad that shipments 0330, 0331, and 0332 had successfully departed the Decagon.

“Sir, I’m afraid that we, um… we have a bit of a, uh… problem, sir. I’ve just received a, um… a notice that daily shipment 0113 is, um… is _missing_, sir.”

The head scientist’s fingers tightened on his stylus, almost threatening to snap it. “_Missing?_”

“Um… yes sir,” replied the tall lavender bot, sheepishly tapping his pointer fingers together.

With a sweep of his cape, Tyrest turned to descend the steps from the balcony into the Decagon proper. “Why are you telling me this instead of fixing it?”

“Sir, it’s proper procedure for, uh… for project head to be notified in case of, um… in case of emergencies like this, sir.” Spanner was almost fanatically devoted to following proper procedure.

“Consider me notified.” Having reached his desk, Tyrest pressed an intercom button. “_Retrieval team Theta, a shipment of spark crystals has gone _missing_. Prepare for immediate mobilization to…_” He paused, silently prompting Spanner for the location.

“We, uh… we lost the carrier’s signal just on the, um… the other side of the Memnon Overpass, sir,” said Spanner, looking over a datapad with the relevant information.

“_The Memnon Overpass. Precise coordinates to be delivered upon assembly,_” finished Tyrest. He mentally kicked himself in disappointment- that particular roadway was notoriously hazardous, and it seemed that his extra security had failed to keep the shipment safe. He turned to Spanner, a severe expression on his face. “You will deliver those precise coordinates. Shipment 0113 will be found. We did not harvest the Matrix just so we could lose its fruit.”

“Understood, sir.”

“That will not be necessary,” came an unfamiliar voice. Tyrest and Spanner whipped their heads around to stare at the Decagon’s main gate, the spot where the voice had come from. Out of the shadowy overhang stepped a tall, thin bot who would have been unassuming, if not for his distinct singular optic and floor-length cloak hemmed with cyberglyphics.

Tyrest’s brows beetled in disgust. “_Nine-of-Twelve_,” he spat. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear everything I need. Come now, Tyrest,” said Nine-of-Twelve, tilting his head mockingly, “is that any way to speak to someone who came to ease your workload?”

“I highly doubt you are here for that. What is it you _really_ want?”

“Only to help you find this missing shipment of spark crystals you’ve so carelessly lost. I will gladly take over the retrieval- one less thing for you to worry your pointy little head over.” Nine-of-Twelve spread his hands in an easy gesture; Tyrest knew that he was still being mocked. “You can go ahead and call off your retrieval team, I’ve brought my own.”

“You speak as if I had agreed to your help. I did not.”

“And we did not ask for you to agree.”

At that word, the Decagon’s gate burst open, sounding an alarm throughout the complex, and a veritable flood of hulking navy bots poured in. Tyrest recognized them- Functionaries, the Council’s personal squad of brutes that made the Senate’s thugs seem reasonable in comparison. Leading them was another bot similar in shape to Nine-of-Twelve, who immediately pointed a pistol at Tyrest. “Hello, Tyrest,” said this bot. “You are hereby found _guilty_ of _high crimes_ against the Guiding Hand.”

“I cannot be guilty of acting against your _fables_, Twelve-of-Twelve!” snarled the head scientist.

“The Guiding Hand are _not_ fables, dear Tyrest,” sneered Nine-of-Twelve as the Functionaries spread throughout the Decagon, apprehending what they could of Tyrest’s staff. “They are the ones who shaped our way of life as it is now. Through Vector Sigma, Primus ignites the hot spots that birth our future generations, and Adaptus’ design shapes those generations into their intended shapes. By desecrating a sacred artifact- the remnant of _Solomus_, no less!- trapping mock sparks in your vile crystals, and placing them in bodies not their own, you deny the Guiding Hand their duties, and thus commit the _highest form_ of blasphemy.”

“Then I shall continue to blaspheme! Are you Functionists ignorant? The pulse waves of Vector Sigma are _slowing!_ They will soon _stop!_ And then where will your future generations be? These spark crystals are the key to our survival as a race!”

Nine-of-Twelve scoffed. “You heard him, Castigator- he has no desire to repent.”

“As I expected of a nonbeliever. Effective immediately, nonbeliever, this and your other facilities shall be decommissioned, every spark crystal you have manufactured shall be destroyed, and your staff shall be punished for being complicit in your heresy- following, of course, an extended interrogation and the handing over of those precise coordinates you mentioned.”

“I _refuse!_” Tyrest practically screamed. “I will not allow you to tear down my life’s work so callously!”

“Would you allow _him?_” asked Twelve-of-Twelve.

Tyrest felt the barrel of a blaster press against his shoulder. “Spanner…?” he asked in disbelief.

For the first time since he had known the tall lavender bot, Spanner did not stutter or pause as he whispered, “I’m sorry, sir.”

The force of the shot shunted Tyrest forward- he fell painfully on his hands and knees, and the pain was only exacerbated by Nine-of-Twelve stepping on his new wound. Despite his efforts, he cried out. Twelve-of-Twelve sidestepped him to accept the datapad from Spanner, who appeared vaguely remorseful.

“Well done, Spanner,” said Twelve-of-Twelve, placing a hand on Spanner’s head as best he could. “As reward for your aid… by the power vested in me by the Functionist Council, I hereby _reclassify_ you. You are now _alt mode exempt_ and free to pursue a path of your own choosing.” Tyrest’s brain module reeled as he just barely heard the proclamation.

Nine-of-Twelve stomped once again on the head scientist’s wound; as he did so, something shook free from his cloak and clattered to the floor. It was an access key to the Decagon… Spanner’s access key. “Who authorized this operation?!” the functionist shouted. “Who allowed you to bleed the Matrix?! I want _names!_”

“I… will not tell…” wheezed Tyrest.

Another stomp. “I think you will,” said Nine-of-Twelve.

~

“Magnus’ head must be spinning.”

The last few minutes had been a blur for Prowl. In order, he had woken up from an apparent drug-induced coma (of which he was not the only victim), found the Constructicons still active and well somehow, staggered him and- he _hated_ to call them this- his team back to the _Lost Light_ in one of the few still-operational shuttles, and been hit with the triple bombshell that Brainstorm was a Decepticon double agent, the cause of the two-ship-wide mass poisoning, and in possession of an active time travel device. (The Constructicons, on the other hand, had been far more concerned with the fact that Swerve watered down his drinks. “I _knew_ it! Hook proclaimed.)

Forget Magnus’ head spinning- Prowl’s was going at tornado speed. Brainstorm _couldn’t_ be a Decepticon, could he? Certainly he was an arrogant jack-aft who thought his existence was a favor to the universe… but most Decepticons he knew were. If it was true, then why had he agreed to work on the Overlord project? Why hadn’t he hindered that when he had the chance? Surely he must have objected to a fellow ‘Con’s imprisonment and grilling.

It seemed like everyone else Rodimus had assembled- Rung, Cyclonus, Tailgate, Riptide, Whirl, and Chromedome- was just as confused as Prowl was, except about different things. A question from Whirl prompted Perceptor to launch into an explanation of what exactly was at stake if Brainstorm succeeded in killing Optimus Prime- then Orion Pax. Prowl got as far into listening as “If he spends an hour in the past, an hour passes here” before he became distracted by the Constructicons clambering over each other to peer into the room through the window. A glare from him made them stop… for a minute.

“He’ll be looking for Pax,” said Rodimus, once Perceptor had finished his explanation. “1st Cycle 502- anyone have any idea where he’s most likely to be?”

There was an awkward silence, during which Prowl felt the energon in his face heat up. He finally raised a hand. “I do.” Everyone’s optics whipped around to him; he continued, trying to hold his embarrassment back. “He’ll be in the _Alyon region_, on the run from Sentinel after thwarting the destruction of the _Primal Basilica_. He and his group of outliers will be spending- will have spent?- the last few sub-cycles fending off repeated _Elite Guard_ deployments.” Time travel tense was hard.

His specificity outwardly caught Chromedome off guard. “How do you know that so well?” the mnemosurgeon asked. “History was… _Rewind’s_ thing.”

The black-and-white bot could no longer hide his embarrassment. “… I was the one who kept _deploying_ the Elite Guard there.”

Chromedome’s visor darkened. “Of course. Is there anything that you _haven’t_ stuck your fingers in?” The question was terribly similar to the one that the duplicate Rewind had asked. Prowl did not answer- divulging the truth would get them nowhere right now.

“Alyon, 1st Cycle 502- can you send us there?” Rodimus asked Perceptor.

The scientist adjusted his eyepiece. “In two minutes’ time, once the quantum engines are primed, _yes_.”

The captain nodded and turned to the assembly. “Okay, people, two minutes. Brainstorm’s armory is over there.” He jerked a thumb in the appropriate direction. “Tool up.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Prowl. He was stopped by Rodimus’ hand on his chestplate.

“No can do,” said Rodimus. “You’ve been in enough business lately; it’s time you took a break.”

“I can’t just sit idle right now. I want to _help_. The outcome of the war is at stake.”

Rodimus scowled, clearly upset about the implication of Prowl’s statement, but chose not to comment on it. “Maybe so, but there are three facts keeping you from coming with us. One- in case you weren’t listening, only spark types matching _Brainstorm’s_ can make the jump.”

“We _think_. It might be that it can accommodate other types, but I’m unwilling to risk a potential disaster if it doesn’t,” said Perceptor from his control panels.

“One hypothesis and _two_ facts, then,” amended Rodimus. “Fact one- you can’t be deploying Elite Guard stooges to hunt down Pax and then show up to fight them off five minutes later. And fact two- I just don’t want you to come.”

“_Ha!_” snorted Whirl, as much as a bot with no nose could snort. “Prowl’s gotta keep his fingers to himself this time! His… lovely, lovely fingers… I want to _rip them off_.” This prompted the black-and-white bot to move his hands defensively in the opposite direction of the blue cyclops’ claws.

As the group dispersed to gear themselves up for their task, Rung approached Prowl, a gentler expression on his face. “There’s a fourth reason you can’t go with us,” he said.

“And what’s that?”

The psychiatrist smiled. “Why, it’s because there’s still a lot we haven’t talked about. If you were lost, we couldn’t have our conversations anymore.”

“What if _you_ get lost?”

“Oh, other psychiatrists exist- they can pick up where I left off. But there’s only one _you_, and you’re not worth losing.” Rung patted Prowl on the arm. “Do me a favor while I’m gone and think on some of what we have talked about, won’t you?”

Two minutes and a set of ground rules later, with a resounding _vop!_, Rodimus and his band of merry men disappeared, leaving Prowl, Magnus, Megatron, and Perceptor together in the room.

The room was soon short one black-and-white bot.

~

The Memnon Overpass was the strip of road that bridged the gap between the Iacon outskirts and the rest of Cybertron. It had the distinct misfortune of passing over the Trannis Fork River, one of the stormiest waterways on the planet- the winds and lashing rain were frequently so strong that they bowled over even the heaviest of bots heading through. Even during relatively calmer weather, traveling groups huddled together and equipped themselves with special heavy wheels, but even that didn’t work sometimes.

All in all, the Memnon Overpass was the perfect place to go missing… or the perfect place to go _off the grid._

The reality of the situation was that daily shipment 0113 had _not_ gone missing; rather, it had been covertly _hijacked_.

Hightower trundled through the maintenance tunnels that led away from the overpass, two of his gang- Side Swipe and Heavy Load- rolling along behind him. The Micro Trailer hitched up to Hightower’s boom crane alt mode glowed at the seams. It carried the spark crystals of daily batch 0113.

At a certain door marked by a unique hieroglyph, the three bots converted, and Hightower keyed in a sequence of codes into the keypad next to it- _13104-E_, _62816-CW_, _62875-PL_. The door slid open to reveal a side tunnel occupied by two more members of the gang- Downshift and Wedge, who greeted Hightower eagerly.

“You made it!” said the short orange bot, slapping Hightower on the arm.

“I’m surprised we did,” replied the burly red bot, cutting Heavy Load off before the yellow dump truck could speak. “Have you seen what it’s like up there? Wind’s blowing harder than I’ve seen in recent years; Side Swipe almost _flew off_ the overpass.”

“All that string-pulling to get us as your extra security? _Not_ worth it,” quipped Side Swipe, shaking excess rainwater out of some crevices in his legs.

Hightower turned to Downshift. “You got the scrambler?”

The mute bot responded by pulling a square device and a cord out of his personal subspace and attaching it to the trailer that Hightower had pulled into the tunnel. One end of the cord went into the device, and the other went into the side of Downshift’s head. After a few seconds, a panel on the device flashed from green to red, indicating that the tracking system Tyrest had implanted in the trailer had been successfully shut down. Let him think that the shipment had gone missing on the way to Yuss. Hightower and his gang had a different destination in mind for these spark crystals.

“Excellent,” said the burly red bot. “Now, Wedge, I’m entrusting the spark crystals to you for the home stretch. You’ve all got the maps and the plan- just keep following the tunnels until you reach Petrex’s Con Facility. Heavy Load and I are in the town’s registry; you three aren’t, so you won’t be able to come in through the front door. Which is why we’ll sneak you into the Con Facility from _underneath_.”

“You got it, boss,” said Wedge, flashing a thumbs-up and once again cutting Heavy Load off. “See you in Petrex. We won’t let you down!”

“Of course you won’t. You’re my gang,” said Hightower, returning the thumbs-up. He watched the last three members of his gang convert and speed down the tunnel, the glow of the trailer following them until it went dark from distance.

~

Prowl did not like not having important things to do. Before, he would have been in control of several different situations in Special Operations. Even during the initial stages of his part of the voyage, stuff would happen that he hadn’t started, but that he could get involved in anyway. But now, between nearly everyone between the _Lost Light_ and _Vis Vitalis_ still unconscious, and Rodimus refusing to allow him to get involved in this time travel scheme, he didn’t really have a lot available to him. It was an uncomfortable change of pace.

Having shaken off the Constructicons, the black-and-white bot now paced across Rung’s vacant office, taking the psychiatrist’s advice to think about some things they had talked about together. It wasn’t much, but it beat watching Mixmaster and Bonecrusher play bolt football again.

Quietly, even though he didn’t know why, he wished Rung well in his adventure; going back in time to prevent the assassination of Orion Pax seemed like something way out of the lanky orange bot’s comfort zone.

Orion Pax… the future Optimus Prime… _there_ was something to think about.

…

_Session 0100_

_“Prowl, today I want to talk about your relationship with Optimus.”_

_“That’s a complicated animal you’re asking to dissect.”_

_“I have no other appointments today, so we can take all the time you need.”_

_He grunted, cushioning his head with his arms._

_“You’ve worked with him for a very long time, have you not?”_

_“Let me make a distinction there. Yes, we’ve worked _alongside_ each other for quite a while. But working _with_ him, in my mind, implies that our goals align, that they’re one and the same. In that context, then no. I haven’t worked _with_ him very often.”_

_“Oh dear. What prompts this distinction?”_

_“Because there have been multiple instances in the past where our goals have clashed, and because of that, we ourselves have clashed. Optimus often let his own personal agendas cloud his vision of what needs to be done, to the point where a lot of the time he ended up convinced that his personal agendas _were_ what need to be done. And he never took kindly to me pointing that out.”_

_“But _your_ personal agendas did not cloud your vision?”_

_“My personal agendas were- _are_\- the initial intent of the Autobots- eliminate the threat of the Decepticons and keep them from becoming a threat again, in the name of keeping our species alive.”_

_“And you don’t think that Optimus shares that goal?”_

_“No, I don’t. Maybe at first, but certainly not now.”_

_“What makes you think that?”_

_“Well, let’s take a recent example, shall we? Megatron’s trial. I’m sure I can get away without telling you just how much damage he’s done to our species, our world, and countless others. By all accounts, that deserves punishment. Eliminating the very source of all this destruction would be a key step in eliminating the threat of the Decepticons, wouldn’t it? That’s _my_ line of thinking.”_

_“For the sake of this, I’ll agree with you.”_

_“Except at the last second, Megatron sticks an Autobot badge on and helps kill Shockwave, and somehow Optimus thinks that that means he’s done a _complete 180_ and completely turned from his genocidal, warmongering ways. So Optimus goes through the trouble of setting up a ‘fair’ trial, ends up letting Megatron off the hook with merely a tell-off for bad behavior, and forcefully implants him as leader of a merry band of nobodies with almost no guarantee that he’s not going to snap back and murder everyone on board.”_

_“Prowl, I think you’re oversimplifying things. Megatron acknowledged that he was in the wrong, and was willing to accept punishment for what he did. Optimus acted on that willingness and took the chance to see if it was genuine.”_

_“So he gambled the lives of the men he claims to care so much for. He forced them to hand over their private vessel to the bot that broke the world on nothing more than a promise without evidence. In direct obstruction of due justice.”_

_“You were there at the trial, Prowl, as was I. You should know that there was no obstruction of due justice, only a postponing of verdict until the Knights can try Megatron objectively.”_

_“At the pace we’re going, that’ll never happen. Maybe Optimus was right; maybe bots can change. Before, Optimus wouldn’t have done anything like this.”_

_“Would you say that you believe he’s lost his way?”_

_“I do. Where’s the bot who wanted to combat the Decepticon threat during the Zeta Prime days? Where’s the bot who wanted to actually stick to the Autobot goal and combat evil, no matter what it took? I liked _him_.”_

_I took a moment to process all that Prowl had told me, before hazarding another question. “When you say you ‘liked him’… does this mean that you don’t like him anymore?”_

_Prowl sighed. “Like I said, this is a complicated animal. I don’t think it’s as strict as me not liking him anymore; it’s more… more _frustration_ with how things have been going with him. I don’t like what he’s done lately, and I don’t like some of what he did back in the day. I think he needs _help_, now more than ever.”_

_“Help meaning you?”_

_“… _Yes_.”_

_“Why do you think that?”_

_“Optimus has always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic. For a while, jumping off of roofs and only working with gung-ho bots got things done, sure, but since the escalation of the war, the dramatic had a tendency to fail. And I can’t help but feel that if his… enthusiasm was tampered a little bit more, then things would get done much more effectively.”_

_“And you believe that you’re the best bot to do that.”_

_“You know that I’m a factual bot. Facts have the most effect. There were a lot of hunches going around in Optimus’ crew before they headed to Earth; what if one of those hunches turned out to lead to disaster? If he had taken me along, I could be there helping _prevent_ those potential disasters.”_

_“But if you remember, Optimus assigned you to have sessions with me because he didn’t think you would be able to make good decisions, after all you’ve been through recently.”_

_“Nonsense. I can still make good choices just fine. I’ve _always_ been able to make good choices.”_

_“Are you sure about that?”_

_He was silent for a moment. “… Okay, maybe not ‘good’ in the moral sense of the word.”_

_“Have you considered that maybe Optimus _does_ want you to help him make decisions after all? Maybe he _wants_ to trust your judgment. Maybe he thinks that by trying to get you the help _you_ need, then you’ll be better equipped to give him the help _he_ needs.”_

_“It doesn’t feel like that.”_

_“I know it may not seem like that at first. But you should consider it a possibility. Don’t those fall into your realm of expertise as well as facts?”_

_“… They do.”_

_We were quiet for a little longer before Prowl spoke up again. “You remember the other day when I said how I felt overlooked? I think that plays a lot into my frustrations with Optimus.”_

_“How so?”_

_“I feel like he always favors the mavericks in the ranks- actually, ‘favor’ might not be the word. I feel like he only pays attention to the mavericks in the ranks when it comes to doing things, and the only time he ever acknowledges any of my ideas is to criticize them.”_

_“You want Optimus to positively acknowledge you?”_

_“Yeah. Just once, I want to hear him say, ‘You made the right call, Prowl. Because of you, this thing couldn’t have gone any better.’” Prowl paused, then resumed in a quieter voice. “I want to hear him say, ‘_I’m proud of you_.’”_

_Perhaps Prowl’s recent actions on Cybertron have been, in their own twisted way, an attempt to elicit that reaction from Optimus._

~

Three days of driving above the ground later, Hightower and Heavy Load arrived at the warm western border of Petrex. As per usual, a Functionary stood at the ready to intercept their entrance. Hightower had encountered this one so often in his years here that he still remembered his designation. “_288!_” he greeted as he converted to robot mode and approached. Behind him, Heavy Load did the same.

288 did not return the greeting. “Status symbol and registration,” he growled mechanically.

The burly red bot sighed as he pulled out what appeared to be a metal billfold with the functionism cog emblazoned on it and presented it to 288. The Functionary examined the rubsign, technical specifications, and listed function contained inside, consulted his datapad, and frowned behind his visor. “This status symbol is _out of date_.”

“I’ve been in Iacon for a bit. Found some work there, work that I didn’t need one of these for.”

“I’ll need proof of function.”

“You just saw my alt mode-”

“I’ll need proof. Of. _Function_.”

Hightower sighed again and complied, converting back to his boom crane alt mode.

288 consulted his datapad again and seemed somewhat placated. “Registration checks out; welcome back, Hightower. Proceed to town hall immediately for status symbol renewal.” The Functionary stepped aside, allowing Hightower to trundle unhindered into Petrex proper. He heard 288 go through the same process with Heavy Load after him, the yellow dump truck protesting all the while.

It had been some years since he had left Petrex, but Hightower found that nothing had changed… well, maybe the town jail had gotten a little bigger.

Petrex was a primarily construction-class town. Most of its inhabitants were builders, architects, engineers, and other such things, but some members of higher classes also lived here, tasked with the essential duties of keeping the town in line. Those higher class bots ran a notoriously strict administration, imprisoning bots for merely a suspected complaint about their alt mode- but they received stipends directly from the Functionist Council, so it kind of made sense. No enforcement of functionist doctrine, no pay.

The burly red bot did not follow 288’s instructions. Rather than head to the town hall in the southeastern corner, he made for the northern section, which housed Petrex’s sole, rarely-used Con Facility 007. Its presence had been hotly debated between functionist fundamentalists and reasonable-minded bots ever since its construction, and for the longest time only specially licensed bots could even enter the facility.

But those licenses wouldn’t get anyone in now.

Because the Con Facility was being demolished.

“Oi, buckethead!” yelled Hightower to the nearest bot. “What’s going on?”

The bot, wielding a blowtorch and resembling an enormous yellow torso on a small tripod, turned from the portion of the facility wall he was cutting away. “I’m Sledge,” he said. “_He’s_ Buckethead.” He gestured with his free hand to an equally large green bot with front loader secondary anatomy.

“’Sup,” said Buckethead, tearing off a sheet of metal.

Hightower planted his hands on his hip struts, conscious of the Functionary that had stopped to watch him. “Whatever. What’s going on?”

Sledge had to raise his voice over the slight roar of his blowtorch. “Didn’t you hear? Council’s orders, three days ago- all Con Facilities in functionist towns are to be _decommissioned_ immediately.”

“And us workers?”

“Find new jobs, or be imprisoned for active blasphemy. Sorry, mate.” Sledge said nothing more, focusing intently on the wall melting under his blowtorch; Hightower walked away unnoticed. Heavy Load finally caught up to Hightower, visibly disappointed at being left out of an important development again.

“Bad news,” reported Hightower into his comm. “The Con Facility is being actively scuttled. And from the looks of it, they’ve bumped the number of Functionary watch-bots up since I was here last.” He watched as three of the huge navy bots emerged form a building, exchanging places with three different ones.

Side Swipe’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Oh, and we literally just pulled up under!”

“So what’ll we do?” asked Wedge. “We’re not gonna… _give up_, are we?”

“Of course not,” assured Hightower. “This has been months in the making; we’ve planned for too long, worked for too long to get this thing even started. There’s got to be another way, I just _know_ it.”

Heavy Load swiped the comm from the burly red bot, desperate to be proactive in something. “What if we go _next door?_” he asked.

There was silence, prompting him to explain.

He explained.

It was agreed that they’d go next door.

~

_Session 0113_

_“Let’s talk about your relationship with Chromedome.”_

_“You already know how I feel about that little memory stealer.”_

_“Yes, yes, I know about the memory stealing. That particular point has been brought up quite a lot. I want to talk about your relationship _before_ that. You worked with him in the Iaconian Mechaforensic Division before the war, did you not?”_

_“I did.”_

_“This was also before your official friendship with him, correct?”_

_“Friendship requires mutual care between parties. It was a work relationship more than anything else- everything was professional.”_

_“Even the seemingly overt amount of protection you offered him?”_

_“He was fresh energon, green in the field. He could have gotten hurt or killed if he had just been left to flounder through, and I didn’t need that on my conscience. So I made it my business to show him every bit of how things were done at the I.M.D, kept the cases we worked on limited to small ones until he got a feel for the job.”_

_“So from what you’re telling me, you did care about him to a degree.”_

_Prowl sighed. “I suppose so.”_

_“Did he know that you felt this way?”_

_“No. Him being him, he thought I was just being anal for the sake of being anal.”_

_“Chromedome didn’t think you had his best interests in mind?”_

_“He didn’t. We clashed a lot over how he thought I was keeping our cases small because I didn’t have any faith in him.”_

_“But that wasn’t true.”_

_“No. Sort of. I didn’t have faith that he would make it out of anything big unscathed. This was during the Clampdown, you understand- latent discontent and a steady increase of violence in the protests was the norm. Like I said, he could have gotten hurt or killed.”_

_“And you never told him this outright.”_

_“… No.”_

_“I see.”_

_“I blame the Sherma investigation for where it _really_ started to go wrong. Thank Primus that Orion Pax kept Chromedome out of the brunt of his Matrix heist, but it gave him the taste of action he had been craving, and it got him hooked. Add to that the fact that the investigation led us to the Institute- he was always fascinated with their brainwashing and mnemosurgery and whatnot. I knew that his fascination was dangerous, and tried to dissuade him from acting on it, but… well… you know what eventually happened.”_

_“He ended up in the employ of the New Institute.”_

_“Yes.”_

_I removed my spectacles to polish them. “If I may ask, what was the reason for your parting ways?”_

_“When I joined the Security Services, he took issue, saying that joining a corrupt organization was antithetical to what the Autobots were trying to achieve. Never mind that I was trying to slowly reform it from the inside.”_

_“Did he know that that was your goal?”_

_“He should have.”_

_“But did you tell him this?”_

_“… No. What I did tell him years later, though, was that him joining the New Institute- which, need I remind you, made its job out of brainwashing bots to serve Zeta Prime’s political interests- was not only hypocritical, but dangerous.”_

_“Therein lies the problem, Prowl. Poor communication, not the Sherma investigation, was the cause of your split with Chromedome. You never told him that you cared for him or that you wanted the best for him; perhaps if he had known that from the start, he wouldn’t have believed that you didn’t have faith in him, or chafed at your counsel.”_

_“I thought I could _show_ him I cared instead of telling him.”_

_“Some bots don’t work that way. Sometimes they need positive verbal reinforcement to help them believe that others care for them. And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like you never said a positive word to Chromedome for as long as you knew him.”_

_He was silent._

_I took the opportunity to ask one of the more important questions I had hoped to ask during this discussion. "Do you resent Chromedome?”_

_Prowl seemed to ponder the question for a minute before answering. “I resent some of the things he’s done to me, yes.”_

_“But do you resent Chromedome himself?”_

_He pondered again before answering slowly. “I don’t know. Certainly I don’t agree with the choices he’s made, but… I can’t deny that he’s always been brilliant at everything he’s done.” He paused. “I told him that, just before the first launch. I told him that I thought he was brilliant.”_

_“But by then, the damage had been long done.”_

_“… Yes.”_

_“You and Chromedome have clashed often since then, correct?”_

_“You haven’t heard the half of it.”_

_“In any of those instances, have you attempted to communicate your feelings to him?”_

_“He certainly knows _exactly_ how I feel about what he’s done.”_

_“But not the feelings you told me you’ve had regarding him? Have you told him that you were acting with his well-being in mind?”_

_“No. I don’t think he would have believed me anyway.”_

_“Why?”_

_“You said it yourself- the damage has been long done. Chromedome doesn’t think I ever genuinely cared about him or anyone else, and it’s highly unlikely that he’ll ever think that, so why bother trying to change that?”_

_“So you’ve given up?”_

_“I’ve made the logical decision to not waste my time trying to fix the unfixable.”_

_“Prowl. You’ve given up.”_

_“… _Yes_.”_

~

“Night, Skyblast.”

“G’night, Overhaul.”

It was closing time at Esserlon’s Con Facility 036, and as per usual, Overhaul was the last one out. He and the other facility staff hadn’t left Skyblast a lot to do in preparation for tomorrow’s work, but all the same, Skyblast wanted to get it done as soon as possible. Strongarm had some quality engex and a movie prepared for the both of them at home.

The white flier made to lock the facility doors, thinking about where in the facility he was going to start- probably in the freezer unit, counting the unused spark crystals again- when he saw something approach.

Or rather, something_s_. _Five_ of them. Very fast.

“Oh, I’m sorry, but we’re-” he began to say, when the burly red bot at the head of the pack interrupted by holding up a gray chip- a cold construction license.

“Hightower, on emergency reroute from the Decagon. We need access to your facility, _pronto_.”

“Should have come earlier, fella. We’re closing up.”

“You don’t understand,” Hightower explained, venting heavily. “Refrigeration systems in our trailer have failed and the spark crystals are in serious danger of evaporation. We need to get these crystals cold _now!_”

The claim caused Skyblast to fumble his keys. “Goodness!” he cried. “That does sound like cause for emergency rerouting. Well, come on- _yike!_” He yelped as Hightower and his team urgently pushed past him into the facility, making for the freezer unit in the back. “I’ll just… stay here and lock up when you’re done, then?” the white flier called after them, to no response. “… Yeah.”

He resigned himself to the fact that Strongarm would most likely start the movie without him.

~

_Session 0089_

_“Looking through your files, I’ve noticed that you spent a lot of time working relatively alone even before you came on board. Wouldn’t that have been detrimental to your position in High Command?”_

_“No, actually. The members of High Command usually had their own departments to run during the war, and most of the time those departments didn’t intersect.”_

_“What about when operations required that they _did_ intersect?”_

_“Well, then naturally we’d collaborate.”_

_“But you seem to have been… _resistant_ to collaboration with the rest of High Command. Why is that?”_

_Prowl was silent for a moment, thinking about the question. “If I’m being honest, it was because I cherished being the only one in charge of my own operations.”_

_“Why is that?”_

_“When you’re in charge, you’re in control of your own little universe. _You_ call the shots that others have to take. You don’t have to report to anyone, and everyone has to report to you. Having spent so much time being an overlooked subordinate, I guess that finally being wholly in charge of something was just… such a _rush_ that I didn’t want to let go.”_

_“Overlooked subordinate?”_

_“Oh yes, big time. _Sentinel_ spent his time ignoring my advice and complaining that I was ‘too cautious.’ _Zeta_ gave me a desk and then just left me alone. And _Optimus_… well, Orion Pax was more receptive to outside voices, but Optimus Prime? Not so much.”_

_“I see.” I took a moment to clean my spectacles before continuing. “If you remember several sessions ago, we talked about your views on authority. Would you say that those views have colored your perception of the authority figures you’ve worked under?”_

_“_Absolutely_. One of the sure signs of a self-serving authority is their unwillingness to place faith in those alongside or under them. No listening to their advice, no granting power to them, none of that.”_

_“Have you kept that in mind during your tenure as head of Special Operations?”_

_“Again, _absolutely_. I’ve always been nothing but receptive to my team.” I couldn’t help but notice that as he said that, he turned to face away from me._

_Based on my observations of how he has treated those currently under him- the Constructicons- and based on some discussions I’ve had with other members of the _Lost Light_ that have worked under Prowl, I don’t believe that he told me the truth. It may very well be that he initially _did_ try to be a better authority than his predecessors, but slipped somewhere along the line and never recovered._

~

They hadn’t gone anywhere near the freezer unit.

Hightower’s claim had turned out to not be false after all. No one had known until now. And everyone was panicking about it.

The trailer’s refrigeration really had failed. The spark crystals winked out, one by one, victims of the heat in the enclosed space. Downshift, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out just what had went wrong- all of the refrigeration systems were whole, undamaged. It seemed as if they had just been turned off; at what point, and by whom, he didn’t know. Certainly not him.

By this point, only one spark crystal remained glowing, but it was flickering rapidly, on the edge of fade. It needed freezing or a wiring-in if it was going to have a chance. The freezer unit was too far away…

But there, in the construction racks they had camped out next to, was an empty, half-finished frame. Its empty chestplate hung invitingly open.

Moving fast, Downshift placed the fading spark crystal in the circular indent in the center of the frame’s open chest. The spherical crystal fit perfectly, and was soon covered by the clear metal of a spark casing. It wasn’t normal procedure- the spark was usually the last thing to go in- but this wasn’t normal circumstance. The mute bot plugged wire after wire into the spark casing- nervous wires, motor control wires, energon conduits. Without the power of a spark, the brain module would be unable to consciously and unconsciously operate a bot’s myriad of systems, and the transformation cog would be unable to initiate, well, transformation.

His work in the frame done, Downshift changed scenery to a control panel beside the construction rack. Typing in a code- _RMB_20120111_\- he activated the rack’s emergency preservation system. It would keep the spark active and stable until the frame was completed and the bot’s full activation was initiated.

The gang watched with bated vents as the spark’s flickering slowed, steadied, stopped. Its glow was faint, but it gradually brightened. They broke out in cheers.

The last spark had been saved.

~

Frustration at being overlooked…

Frustration with others not understanding that he cared…

Frustration with a leader whose approval he craved…

All of these sounded eerily similar to something close to Prowl right now.

_Give the Constructicons a chance_, Rung had told him. _Give them the benefit of the doubt. Ask them why they’ve latched on to you. Treat them with at least a little respect. The Constructicons want a relationship with you._

It finally hit Prowl that the way he had been feeling about Optimus, Chromedome, and the poor authority he had worked under… might be the exact same way that the Constructicons were feeling about _him_.

Wasn’t he better than his selfish predecessors? Didn’t he value his fellow bot enough to do things he didn’t want to in order to make things okay for them? That had certainly been his modus operandi during the post-war fiasco on Cybertron. Had he abandoned that?

The black-and-white bot left Rung’s office.

He was going to do something that he didn’t want to do, for his sake, and the sake of the _Lost Light_.

He and the Constructicons were long overdue for a talk.

~

“Morning, Skyblast. You’re here early today.”

Skyblast rubbed his tired optics as he turned to greet Overhaul, who offered a hot morning engex that he accepted gratefully. “Oh, I never left,” he mumbled. “Can’t very well clean up and lock up if there are still bots _plugging away_, can I?” At a confused look from his friend, the white flier led him into the Con Facility and jerked his thumb at Hightower’s crew, who had indeed been plugging away at completing one of the facility’s bots-in-progress. It was very nearly done.

Overhaul furrowed his brow in further confusion. “Hey, isn’t that the frame I’ve been working on all week?”

“They stole your thunder. Emergency reroute from the Decagon, my aft.”

The stubby green bot marched over to the group of other bots. “Excuse me,” he said sternly, “but you’ve kept my friend from going home for the night, and you’ve lost me a 15,000 shanix commission. Just who are you, and what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

The burly red bot turned and said simply, “We’re the _protestors_, and we’re starting a _protest_.”

“We never agreed that ‘the Protestors’ was going to be our team name,” Side Swipe piped up.

“That’s terrible,” agreed Wedge.

Heavy Load was about to put in his two cents, when Hightower cut him off again. “Sh-shut up. The point is, we’re on a self-imposed mission- a mission that Tyrest would _never_ approve of- to prove to the functionist fundamentalists of Cybertron that cold-constructed bots have worth, too. And this fellow-” he patted the still-inactive frame’s shoulder- “is going to be our first tool in completing that mission. We were actually going to build him in _Petrex_, but we were denied that irony.”

Overhaul pinched his chin as he surveyed the frame that Hightower’s team had put together. The final form of the frame, while certainly of high-quality assembly, had ended up quite different from what he had originally envisioned- for one, he had been commissioned to build a flier. This frame instead had the secondary anatomy of a rather sturdy four-wheeler; the only trace of flier left were the two doors that sprouted behind the shoulders like wings. Aside from that, there was not much to find legitimate fault in. The chevron on the forehead seemed like an unnecessary addition, but its spot of red stood out against the sea of black and white.

“Couldn’t have had your denied irony on _someone else’s_ rack, though, could you?” the stubby green bot mumbled.

“Oh, come off it,” retorted Hightower, relocating to the construction rack’s control panel. “You’ll have plenty of time for your commission, but this is the only chance we’re going to get.”

He entered a code, threw a switch, and watched the magic happen.

The floodgates in the conduits that connected the spark to the brain module and the transformation cog opened, and a wave of blue energy surged forth. The chestplate shut, closing the circuits needed for bodily functions. Energon flowed, shunted on by the fuel pump. On the screen, readouts showed that internal heat was rising to operable levels. Vital signs rose very slowly but very steadily into the green zone. The wires of the emergency preservation system disconnected from the frame; the plating exposing those ports slid easily shut over them.

Optics of a hazy blue unshuttered, roamed around the room uneasily. The new bot- he had ceased to be a simple frame anymore- raised a freshly unclamped hand. The hand went back down as he failed to comprehend just why everyone in front of him was celebrating.

“Wh… what’s going on?” he asked meekly.

Hightower placed a gentle but firm hand on the new bot’s shoulder and guided him down from the construction rack, beaming. “You _survived_,” he said. “You almost didn’t make it- your spark nearly went out in getting here, and I was afraid for a minute your vitals wouldn’t hold. But against all odds, you survived. You made it to safety. We’re going to take care of you, and you’re going to do great things. Welcome to the world…

“**_Prowl of Esserlon_**.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so begins the _elegant chaos_  
prowl not getting involved in the time-travel shenanigans allowed for some more opportunity to address his feelings. i wanted to revisit his sessions with rung, building upon what they had started talking about in chapter 3 and finally addressing his relationships mentioned in chapter 7, in order to lead up to his eventual epiphany at the end of this chapter. I kind of rushed the last few bits of his thinking, so to make up for it, i'll explore his motivations for finally talking to the constructicons in the next chapter.  
i also wanted to explore prowl's role in the functionist universe during this three-parter. i imagine that since his birth occurred fairly close to the timeline branch, not much would initially be changed- hence why his spark was still stolen, and why he's still the product of an anti-functionist protest. there are some major differences, though, and there will continue to be major differences as things progress, i promise.  
also, swerve's recap as the chapter's opening notes was fun to write, lmao  
up next: multiple bombs will drop


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl gets some closure in one universe, and gets into trouble in another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome back! Looks like business has been popping even with the, ah... the _slump_. Sorry about that, by the way. In my defense, somebody took the opportunity to raid the bar and it took more time than I expected to get everything back in order. But I guess that can happen when you're out cold.
> 
> "From the Brainstorm poisoning. Yeah, I'm not gonna let that go for a while.
> 
> "But anyway! A lot happened during that slump. Like, a _lot_. Or maybe actually just two things, both of which involve Prowl. Whoop-de-doo, everything seems to be about Prowl nowadays, who cares?
> 
> "You do? To each their own, I guess, though for the life of me I don't know _why_ you'd care.
> 
> "Okay, okay, I'm sorry for complaining. And for the slump, but you knew that. Anyway, Prowl. For once he didn't get involved in the ship shenanigans; he got sidelined when Rodimus and his gang went back in time to track down Brainstorm. Yeah, you heard me right- there's time travel now. Ol' Brainstorm's got it into his head that he's going back in time to assassinate Orion Pax.
> 
> "The future Optimus Prime.
> 
> "I agree. This quest has officially _jumped the shark_.
> 
> "So while Rodders and them were off doing who-knows-what, Prowl did what he usually does. He sulked. He sulked and he brooded and he thought about his talks with, uh... Eyebrows Guy. Frag, what was his name? Ding? No, Dung. No, Rung! Yeah, he thought about his talks with Rung, the transcripts of which I do _not_ have and you can't prove that I do. But if I did... I'd say that Scowly Prowly has some serious interpersonal issues. And I'd think that he finally figured that out himself. Good thing he did, too; otherwise all my tables would come unbolted from him throwing them at the Constructicons all the time.
> 
> "Of course, I'd only think that if I had the transcripts.
> 
> "Which I don't. Quit giving me that look.
> 
> "Oh, and there were also some alternate universe shenanigans that I don't think I'm qualified to try and recap, and that I don't think the character limit in this block could handle, but I'm sure as the Pit gonna try.
> 
> "Remember _Tyrest?_ The nutjob who tried to kill every knockoff he built a while back? Well, in this new universe, he didn't get that chance. His knockoff building project- what do you mean, that word's a slur? It's just a word. It only has power if you give it power. His _knockoff_ building project got shut down by the Functionist Council before he could shut it down himself. I know that's not what actually happened in our universe, but for the sake of the narrative...
> 
> "Except they didn't get all the spark crystals from the project. One trailer managed to get away, and that's only because it was stolen.
> 
> "Why was it stolen? They said it was for an anti-functionist protest, but personally I'm not buying it.
> 
> "Anyway, the thieves wanted this 'protest' to start in Petrex's Con Facility- you remember Petrex, right? Those hardliners with the thing about the alt modes? Yeah, they wanted to build a bot there for irony purposes, but surprise surprise! The Con Facility was being demolished when they got there. Irony denied. Wrench thrown. Plan ruined. What's a gang to do?
> 
> "_Go next door_, obviously.
> 
> "Esserlon's Con Facility was still up and running, so that's where they went. They only succeeded in building one bot, and I think you know who that one bot is. Yeah, it's Prowl. What do you want, a free drink? Too bad.
> 
> "So with the promise of that universe's Prowl being set up to do big things, and with this universe's Prowl finally realizing he's being a piston, I'll ease off and let you find out what happens next.
> 
> "You know what, here's that free drink. You might need it."

“Don’t let Blaster feed you any more engex, okay? Straight energon _only_; engex is bad for your fuel tanks.”

Long Haul and First Aid had been working for the past hour or so administering an antidote to all the bots that had been affected by Brainstorm’s poisoning. In their examination of Blaster’s pet, Steeljaw, First Aid had discovered a minor buildup of engex sediment in the pneuma-lion’s fuel tank. The young medic had guided Long Haul through the small procedure necessary to clear it, a procedure that Long Haul was very happy he had succeeded in.

Steeljaw mewed softly at Long Haul’s instruction, which the tall green bot took as a positive acknowledgement. He patted the yellow pneuma-lion on the head and sent him off with a rust biscuit treat. “So who’s next?” he asked First Aid after.

First Aid consulted his datapad, making a note on it to inform Blaster about feeding Steeljaw engex. “Uh… Bluestreak.”

“_Dancing Bot!_” Long Haul exclaimed as he helped First Aid lift the blue bot onto the newly-vacated medical berth. “He seems to have gotten a lot of attention lately, hasn’t he?”

“I wonder why that is?”

The tall Constructicon was about to answer when he received a ping in his personal radio. It was from Prowl, asking for them all to convene for a meeting. Long Haul pinched his chin- Prowl had spent the past six-odd months actively trying to avoid gestalt meetings. To have him suddenly try to arrange one out of the blue was… _unusual_, to say the least.

“Hey, First Aid?” he hazarded. “Can I have a ten-minute break? Something important came up just now.”

“More important than administering the antidote? We’ve still got a ship and a half to treat before Brainstorm comes back.”

“It’s gestalt business.”

First Aid raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“… Okay, it’s _Prowl_ business.”

“Ten minutes only.”

“Thanks, First Aid, you’re the best.”

“At least you think so.”

~

“Bonecrusher’s late _again_.”

Prowl of Petrex sat cross-legged on the floor of the boiler room, crowded by the combined bulk of the four Constructicons present. His trademark scowl and crossed arms remained, but the others were visibly anxious. In particular, Long Haul kept checking his external chronometer every few seconds, Scavenger fidgeted with his toe plating, Hook shuffled a deck of cards, and Mixmaster kept his mouthplate firmly in his copy of the Autobot Code.

Finally, Bonecrusher made his appearance. “Sorry I’m late,” he explained, “but I was having trouble with this pistol.” He brandished the firearm in question, causing Hook to flinch backward. “It doesn’t seem to hit where I aim it at all.”

Prowl gave the pistol a quick glance. “Have you tried looking down both sights?”

The bulldozer examined the pistol’s muzzle, and his face visibly heated up as he found the two sights protruding off it. “… Yes?” he attempted.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“No.”

“What’s this about, Prowl?” asked Hook as Bonecrusher took his seat in the rough circle. “Why are you calling a meeting now? You’ve never called one before.”

“I know.” The black-and-white bot sighed and rubbed his chevron, searching for the right words. “I’ve… been thinking, and I’ve realized something too late. I’m no Sentinel. I’m no Zeta, I’m no Impactor, I’m no _Optimus_. They all disregarded the ones they worked with and fell to disaster. And as much as I don’t like being here, or being stuck working with you five, I don’t want another disaster to befall the _Lost Light_ because of me. If I keep on treating you like I have been since the voyage started, I risk that happening.”

Maybe Brainstorm’s time shenanigans were also a reason why he was calling this meeting. Better to get his nagging affairs settled before the entire timeline of the universe reset and removed the chance to do that forever.

“You think we’re gonna snap and beat everyone up because you keep yelling at us?” Hook asked, seemingly incredulous.

Prowl said nothing, but his look gave all the answer Hook needed.

“Oh, we’d _never!_” said the crane.

“Well, I almost came close once,” said Bonecrusher, earning a knock on the back of the head from Long Haul.

Hook continued as if nothing had happened. “We spent four million years getting the slag beaten out of us by Megatron, and we turned out just fine.”

“That’s debatable,” Prowl retorted.

“The point is, we can take a little of your yelling. Can’t we?” The last bit was directed at the other Constructicons, who gave mixed nonverbal responses.

“I mean, I get why you yelled at us,” said Mixmaster, “but we can’t change the fact that we spent the entire war on opposite sides. We fixed that; we’re on the same side now. At least, we’re trying to be on the same side.” He held up his thick datapad. “For whatever reason, it seems like you hate us _more_ since we made the switch.”

“Hate’s a strong word,” said Long Haul.

“I don’t think Prowl hates us,” Scavenger piped up. “… Do you?”

Prowl rubbed his chevron again. “I _don’t know_. For all my thinking, I don’t know. Part of me screams that I should hate you. Part of me _does_ hate you- it hates that you all have been so easily forgiven and it hates that you’re following me around. That last thing makes me especially angry, because I have no idea about that either.” He paused to take in a deep vent. “That’s why I’ve called this meeting. I want to know _why_ you five have latched onto me the way you have. And we’re not leaving until I get a proper explanation.”

“It’s because you’re _gestalt_,” said Long Haul simply.

The black-and-white bot scoffed. “That can’t be the only reason why. The Aerialbots? The bots whose gestalt we fought back on Cybertron? They could hardly stand each other, even with their bond.”

“Just saying, it is a factor.”

Bonecrusher pointed jauntily at Prowl. “Personally, I stuck around because you’re _angry_.” The black-and-white bot’s scowl deepened, but the bulldozer pressed on to explain. “Before you, I was kinda just… angry in general. But you? You know how to concentrate your anger at _specific_ things. I like that. I want to do that.” This earned him another knock from Long Haul. “_What?_ It’s true!”

It might have been true- Prowl definitely _could_ concentrate his anger, even if he hadn’t been doing it that much lately- but it didn’t exactly give him any reassurance.

“You’re _smart_,” said Hook. “No offense, but we don’t have a functioning neuron between us.”

“We have one, but Mixmaster hasn’t given it back yet,” said Scavenger.

“_Hey!_”

“Correction- we had two, but the second one disappeared with Scrapper. And since then, we’ve kinda just been stumbling around aimlessly. But then you came along, and suddenly we had direction. The way you helped us find Scavenger when he went missing? The way you found all those little clues? None of us could have done that on our own. None of us could have done _any_ of what you did in the past. You’re smart enough to find what we can’t, and take charge with what you find. And honestly, I think we’ll fall to pieces without that.”

Long Haul sighed, though it didn’t seem to be in a negative context. “I think that the way you’ve treated Scavenger lately is what led me to stick around.”

“But I’ve treated Scavenger terribly. I’ve treated _all of you_ terribly. Did you not hear me say that?”

“Sure, you’ve yelled and thrown tables, but at this point, who hasn’t?” jested the tall Constructicon gently. “No, I mean the way you’ve helped him. Finding him, keeping him safe through the double _Lost Light_ thing. I don’t think you’d have done those things if, under your yelling and table throwing, you didn’t care about him. About us. I don’t think you’d have called this meeting if you didn’t care.” He paused; Scavenger nodded enthusiastically in agreement. “Truth be told, ever since Scrapper died, we’ve been hurting for someone in charge that actually cares about us. And I think… I think that you might be the new somebody. And hey, it always helps to have another pair of optics on these knuckleheads.”

This was enough to give Prowl slight pause. At the times of “helping” them find Scavenger and instructing the small bot, he had done so with the purpose of getting them off his back. But he could easily have offloaded them completely onto someone else- just as he had done during his tenure as Special Operations head- yet he had shouldered the responsibilities himself. _Did_ he actually care for the Constructicons, even under his explicit disdain for his role in their hierarchy? Even despite who they had been before?

For all his meanness toward bots he had worked with in the past, all his scheming and sulking that pushed them away, deep down he actually _had_ cared about them… he’d just been really bad at showing it…

But _they_ hadn’t been recent converts from Decepticonism.

Prowl put off his brief inner torment to look at Mixmaster, the only one who hadn’t given any reason behind hanging around. “And what’s your excuse?” he asked.

The mixing truck wordlessly set down his datapad and moved to where he could take the black-and-white bot’s head in his hands. Prowl flinched away; he knew what Mixmaster was about to do. But Mixmaster managed to gently pull him closer.

Forehead rested against chevron, and Mixmaster shared a memory with Prowl.

~

Mixmaster swayed his way through the Autobot camp in the wilderness. He had tapped out early in the Constructicons’ drinking contest with the Dinobots- it had gotten wildly out of hand way too fast. He was disappointed that their new sixth man hadn’t shown up at the camp canteen; not wanting to leave him out, Mixmaster was now on his way to deliver the bottle of engex in his hand to Prowl.

Not too far in the distance, he could see Prowl’s distinct black-and-white plating and jutting doors standing out against a cream-colored structure. He was just about to shout in greeting…

When a painful jolt brought him to his knees. It felt like a massive electric surge just behind his spark, and it left a screaming static all throughout his frame. His optics hazed. His hands shook. His brain module felt fuzzy. Three seconds too late, he realized that the static was the bond signal for gestalt component damage magnified five times. The others were hurting. Something was wrong.

Practically crawling on his hands and knees, Mixmaster pushed through the wet shards of the broken engex bottle to reach Prowl. (Had he been sitting down the whole time?) “_Prowl…!_” he choked out, his voice tingling in his mouth. “Something’s…”

The words died as Mixmaster looked in horror. Yes, something was _very, very wrong_.

Prowl’s arms jerked stiffly, vaguely clawing at various pieces of plating. He only made a strangled “**_Hrrgh-!_**” sound. Greenish-purple smoke poured from his optics and mouth. Mixmaster could feel the intense heat of Prowl’s slowly combusting spark even from two feet away.

Prowl was _dying_.

And Mixmaster had no idea what to do.

“Help! Please help!” the mixing truck tried to cry out, but his voice was too filled with static to make distinct words. He saw bots pass by out of the corner of his optics, but they seemed in a hurry to be elsewhere. He resorted to crouching alone in front of Prowl with a panicked expression; his palms burned as he placed them gently on either side of the black-and-white bot’s chevron. He wanted to cry. He hadn’t felt a bond pain like this since Scrapper had died, and that pain almost didn’t compare to this.

And then, almost as suddenly as it had started, the bond pain dulled to a tingle. Beneath his hands, Prowl’s plating started to cool. The smoke stopped pouring, but a viscous pitch-black fluid dripped from his flickering blue optics and down his cheeks. He groaned and put a hand to his head.

“Prowl?” Mixmaster borderline whimpered, his voice finally free of static. “You’re… are you okay?”

“No. I feel _cooked_. And not the kind you’re thinking of.”

For the moment, that was good enough for Mixmaster. He gently pulled Prowl into an embrace, and for once, Prowl did not protest.

~

The two bots separated, and Prowl was momentarily lost for words. He had almost forgotten the effects of Tyrest’s universal killswitch. And at the time, he had had no idea of the effects of the gestalt bond he shared with the Constructicons. To experience Mixmaster’s pain and confusion and fear in that moment humbled him for a bit. When he hurt, others hurt. Empathy was something that he had almost never experienced in his past, and to feel it from someone he had considered an enemy for so long was… confusing, to say the least.

“That’s my excuse,” said Mixmaster. “With Scrapper gone, I’m the only forged bot left on the team, and who’s to say something like that won’t happen again? I said it when we tried to come aboard- we’re _responsible_ for you.” The mixing truck slid his thick datapad across the floor, where it stopped at Prowl’s knee. “Also, there’s that.”

The Autobot Code, Section 2, Subsection 27, Paragraph 2. _Autobot Ethics- In all scenarios, an Autobot must never willfully leave a fellow Autobot behind. All efforts must be taken to ensure the safe transit and assured wellbeing of fellow Autobots._

“I know it doesn’t look like it all the time, but we really are trying.”

Rung’s words rang in Prowl’s audials. _They want to change. They’re trying to._ Prowl hadn’t wanted to admit it before, but now he could no longer deny it. However silly, however irritating, however risky, over-the-top, and dangerous, since boarding the _Lost Light_ the Constructicons had exhibited more care and loyalty for their fellow bot than he remembered they ever did during the war. Than _he_ ever did during the war, he realized too late. And they wanted to share that care and loyalty with him, as part of their team. As gestalt.

They cared enough about him to weather his enduring harshness to try and make him happy.

They were loyal enough to continue wanting him to lead them and spend time with them.

They wanted to be his _genuine, honest-to-Primus friends_.

In that moment, Prowl of Petrex looked upon the Constructicons with hazy optics and saw them not as his equals, but as his betters.

~

“Denied?”

Prowl of Esserlon alternated his confused gaze between his application for official courier registry, which bore a big red electronic stamp that said “DENIED,” and the smug grin of Advocate Xeon over the surface of the enormous, polished desk. The creepy faces in the functionist totems on either side of the Advocate’s tall chair seemed to leer at him, too. Weren’t the Guiding Hand supposed to look friendlier than that?

“That’s right, _denied_,” said Xeon, his voice as oily as the finish on his purple plating. “It’s against town policy to allow any bots constructed cold to register as authorized workers, courier or otherwise.”

“But what about the Senator’s call?” Prowl asked. “He said that Petrex has been in need of more able bodies since the last export. And I’m an able body!”

The Advocate scoffed. “No, you’re a _knockoff_, and in accordance with Petrex bylaws, you are to be granted the due labor rights of a knockoff- that is to say, _none at all_. I’m sure Senator Eronus would tell you the same thing.”

“Senator Eronus can tell him whatever he likes, Advocate,” proclaimed a rough voice from behind the totems. Both Xeon and Prowl started as Senator Eronus of Petrex himself emerged from the back office of the town hall, a severe expression on his purple face. “Are you being petty with the applications again?” he continued.

“N-no, Senator!” wheedled Xeon. “I was simply… _explaining_ to this strapping, capable young bot-”

“_Yes_, Senator, I think he _was_ being petty with the applications,” Prowl cut in.

Eronus nodded and gestured for the black-and-white bot to follow him into his office. Prowl was only too happy to leave Xeon’s spluttering protests- and his very large desk- behind. The Senator’s desk was even larger than the Advocate’s, but Prowl supposed it needed to be if it was to hold the huge stacks of datapads scattered all over it. The lack of functionist totems made the Senator’s space significantly less creepy than the Advocate’s.

Red optics just barely met hazy blue as Prowl took a very low seat opposite Eronus. “So, you’re trying to register as a courier?” the Senator asked after briefly reviewing the stamped file on the datapad.

“Yes, Senator,” said Prowl as professionally as he could. “Already registered in three of the Four Corners- Altihex, Lower Petrohex, and Esserlon on the eastern border. You’ll find the marks of recommendation from each of my supervisors in the third file on that pad.”

“The third file that Xeon didn’t bother to look at,” sighed the Senator, flicking over to the mentioned file. “You’d be right in what you said to him; ever since the last export, we’ve had to rely on the other three Corners for bodies and building supplies. Just last year we had to close our last smelting facility because so many of the workers were relocated.”

“Senator,” said Prowl, “my home city is one of Cybertron’s foremost producers of building materials. If you allow me to register for authorized couriership here, I can deliver all the home-grown permacrete, trithyllium girders, and bolts you need from there until you can get enough workers back to reopen your smelting facility.”

Eronus shook his head sadly. “As I’m sure you could. Solomus knows that the next export will rob us of even more of the wanderers, and the citizens are getting ever more tired of waiting so long for their orders. But Xeon was right in what _he_ said to _you_; it is the unfortunate circumstance that Petrex’s functionist bylaws _cannot_ authorize non-forged bots to register as workers.”

“With due respect, Senator,” said Prowl, “the functionist bylaws are backward and discriminatory. One’s origin, alt mode, whichever, should _not_ dictate one’s ability to accept the roles in life they wish to pursue. To say otherwise is to deprive bots of their freedom.” It was a perfect recitation of what he and Hightower had gone over in their rehearsal of this scenario.

“I am inclined to agree with you,” Eronus sighed, “but my position cannot allow me to act otherwise.”

“Couriers don’t even spend most of their time _staying_ in the cities they register in.” That had not been rehearsed.

“Regardless.”

“Please, Senator. I have need of further employment, and you’re in need of bots to employ. There must be _some_ way for me to register. I’m almost perfectly qualified for it.”

“I do not doubt your credentials, young Prowl, nor am I discarding the clear need we have for bots of your occupation.” The Senator laced his fingers on his desk and worked his jaw in thought. “Perhaps… the bylaws could be _amended_, with a bit of public support.”

“What are you proposing, Senator?”

“I propose to make you, for the time being, my _personal courier_. You will run my errands and make deliveries around here on my behalf – off the books, of course. If, by the end of the sub-cycle, seventeen Petrexian citizens can vouch for your service, then I shall officially accept your registration and petition the Functionist Council to repeal the act.”

The black-and-white bot was blindsided. Not only had the Senator of a functionist town _agreed_ with him about the wrongness of the espoused doctrine, but he had also offered a chance and a job beyond what he had initially tried to apply for. There was, however, one snag. “How will you justify my work to those who ask in the meantime? Seeing as I won’t be officially registered for it.”

“It is within senatorial allowances to hire personal attendants, is it not?” rumbled Eronus with a knowing smile.

Prowl slowly returned the grin. “When can your personal attendant expect to begin his service?”

~

“_What are you doing buying bolts at the energon depot?!_” screamed Xeon into his comm before throwing it onto his desk in disgust. Sometimes his errand-bots were truly moronic. He quickly lost focus on his anger when the black-and-white bot from earlier emerged from Eronus’ office. Sharp optics noticed that the datapad with the application on it had been cleared of its electronic stamp, and that the bot was struggling to keep his expression neutral. The Advocate quirked an eyebrow in intrigue, an eyebrow that he turned to the Senator as he emerged shortly afterward.

“What happened?” asked Xeon. “Did you put that knockoff in his place?”

“Of a sort,” replied Eronus. “It was more like he fell into his place willingly.”

Xeon considered the implications of that statement and came to a conclusion that was satisfactory, if uncomfortable. His oily face shifted into what could charitably be called a smile, but behind it, cogs turned.

~

The external chronometer by the recharge slab rang loudly. Drivetrain had to slam his fist atop it in order to get it to sufficiently shut up; this had the side effect of nearly splitting it in half. Were he coherently conscious, he would have observed this and made a mental note to submit a request for a new external chronometer to Advocate Xeon. But he was not coherently conscious, so it went unobserved.

The giant navy truss crane rolled over on his recharge slab, tried to sit up, and slammed his head against the ceiling. He muttered a curse in Old Cybertronian. Petrex dwellings had standard dimensions, and be cursed if one’s personal dimensions didn’t fit comfortably within those standard dimensions. Once he retired, either he downsized his frame, or he moved to Esserlon’s more spacious Hyperious Flats apartments.

It was dark outside, still very early in the morning. A morning bot Drivetrain was not, but he _was_ one of the last available foremen since Petrex’s last worker export, and getting up early was part of that job’s sacred routine. Groggily grabbing a sack of energon snack cubes from beneath his recharge slab, he crouched his way to the door that wasn’t big enough for him…

And found an unfamiliar and unexpected face standing on the other side.

Drivetrain had to stop himself from practically bowling the unfamiliar bot over. “Who the frag are _you?_”

The unfamiliar bot stood up straight, his black-and-white plating washed with yellow in the flickering porch light. A package lay in his hands, and a Micro Trailer rested next to him. “Prowl of Esserlon,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m Senator Eronus’ new _personal courier_. And you’re Drivetrain?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Excellent! You’ll be please to find that your order has been successfully processed and is finally here. Sign on the bottom line, please.” Prowl shoved the package, and the datapad on top of it, into Drivetrain’s hands. Drivetrain’s visor darted to the edge of the waterway that sectioned off this part of town- one of the longer Vinvissius Canals- and noticed Waterlog the ferryman glowering. He could tell that the ferryman was thinking the same thing he was- that he was displeased with the sudden, much too early appearance of this new courier and his interruption of their usually quiet morning.

“You do know that Seaspray delivers the packages around here, right?” the giant navy truss crane grumped as he signed the datapad. “And at a much more _reasonable_ time, too.” A time when he was much more receptive to obnoxious package-peddlers, he wanted to say.

“Well, not anymore. Not for a bit, anyway. Why wait until later to deliver what’s here now?” Prowl countered.

“Why bother delivering across a waterway if you ain’t got the alt mode to cross it?” Drivetrain sneered, pointing derisively at the wheels on the courier’s shoulders.

“I think that alt mode shouldn’t dictate who provides essential services. If you can do it, you should.”

“How were you born, son?”

Prowl was visibly taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

“You _forged_, or you a _knockoff?_”

“Actually, I… I am constructed cold-”

Drivetrain snorted. “Figures. You ain’t had a natural alt mode in your life, so of course you’d think so naively of them.” He tossed the package roughly back into his dwelling, causing Prowl to wince, and got close to the courier’s face (which was easy to do, seeing as he was still crouching). “Listen here, son; have I gotta spell it out for you? Why do you think bots with paddles do waterway deliveries? Because it’s a job that they can easily do with their alt mode. Bots with wheels are cut out for different jobs, jobs that don’t require an aft-ton of special accommodations and good bots losing the jobs they were made for. Thanks for the package, but _give Seaspray his job back_.”

Prowl stumbled back as Drivetrain forced himself through the door with a loud scrape. He held up a different datapad. “Um, before you go, I was wondering if you’d sign this form of endorsement so that I can officially register as a Petrexian courier?”

The giant navy truss crane snorted as he stretched, the joints in his spinal strut popping. “Like the Pit I’ll vouch for _you_, you Primus-cursed knockoff job stealer.” He placed a hand on the black-and-white bot’s face and easily shoved him to the ground. That caused Waterlog to smirk a little.

Both bots’ attitudes soured further when they had to share a canal crossing with that Primus-cursed knockoff job stealer.

~

“What in the Pit is this?”

Prowl looked calmly at the form that the very wide and very angry orange bot waved before his face on the recently delivered datapad. “It appears to be… a cease and desist, sir,” he said.

“A cease and desist for something I never did!” the orange bot yelled. He ran his optics over the form again. “For ‘making negative comments about my Adaptus-given alt mode, and thus ridiculing his handiwork.’ I haven’t said one fragging thing about my stupid boom crane alt mode!”

He paused, his optics widening in vague horror. “Oh _frag_.”

As if on cue, two Functionaries patrolling nearby heaved their way over, grabbed the orange bot by the arms, and hauled him kicking and screaming and protesting in the direction of Petrex’s admittedly shabby jail. So that was what the cease and desist was for. Prowl made a mental note to keep quiet about his own four-wheeler alt mode’s lack of suspension.

~

The sun began to set, signaling the end of the work day for many Petrexian bots, Prowl included. He was almost empty of datapad letters and packages of varying sizes. This was the last one.

His knock on the door prompted the appearance of a familiar face. “Oh hi, Hightower,” he said.

“Prowl!” exclaimed Hightower, kicking something away from the door before Prowl could get a good look at it. “Have you got my special-order bolt gun?”

The black-and-white bot raised an eyebrow. That was what he led with? No asking about his day at work? No declaration that it was good to see him? He shrugged that aside for the moment and handed over the package and the datapad for Hightower to sign. When the burly red bot handed the datapad back, Prowl asked if he could sign the form of endorsement.

“Of course!” Hightower answered. “Why _wouldn’t_ I help you get that job you’re after?”

Prowl wanted to say that he alone wasn’t necessarily after it, but he kept quiet, simply grateful for his friend’s help. Before he turned back to give a final report to Eronus, Hightower placed a hand on his shoulder. “You got this, Prowl,” he said. “You’re going to do great things, remember? Just keep at it; I’ll be there with you all the way.”

~

“You _can’t_ be doing what I think you’re doing,” Xeon said once the cold construct had left the town hall. To say that he didn’t approve of the Senator’s latest act would be an understatement. Not only did it go against everything Petrex stood for, but he hadn’t even consulted him, Xeon, about it. Hadn’t filed the proper paperwork that the Functionist Council needed to be sent. It was a gross breach of protocol, and protocol was what Xeon lived for.

Eronus planted his purple face into his white palm. “Come now, Xeon. He wants to work, and we need workers. Why do you protest?”

The Advocate slammed a hand on the Senator’s desk. “Because he’s a _knockoff!_ Hiring his kind is against the Council’s bylaws set for this town! You know this!”

“So you expect me to turn away a perfectly qualified bot just because of something he can’t control?”

“Yes!”

“That’s a _monumentally_ stupid notion.”

“No, _hiring a knockoff_ is monumentally stupid. Do you remember the last time they were part of our workforce? The great construction disaster of 1st Cycle 209? The bylaws were created because of that disaster!”

“Things have changed, Xeon!” Eronus roared. “Our workforce is too thin for a disaster like 1st Cycle 209! It’s too thin to keep _functioning_ for much longer! Building materials are vanishing and we have no one to go and replace them! We need all the help we can get, wherever we can get it! The discrimination in the bylaws is a barrier that needs to be removed if Petrex is to _survive!_”

Xeon reeled back at that statement, his face falling. “I know you did not just say that, Senator.” He spat the title out like it was a curse.

Eronus sighed, and said in a much quieter voice, “I’m using him to test public opinion on letting constructed cold bots back into the workforce. If they approve, I plan to propose an amendment to the Council. If not, then I’ll remove him, and we’ll go back to following the bylaws. I’m only trying to act for the best.”

“So are your superiors,” sneered the Advocate. He turned about and left a trail of polishing oil behind him on his way out the door.

~

“I ordered _green_ paint. Are you colorblind as well as a heathen?”

“How am I supposed to fix Duststorm’s leg with this? This is the wrong type of thigh strut, you knockoff! Take it back!”

“I can’t afford to be seen with a cold construct, they’ll think I’ve abandoned the faith. Get out of here.”

It got worse as the months wore on. Regular chewings-out fell on Prowl’s audials in the event he had to deliver bad news. Complaints were frequently given regarding the products he brought- they were bent, they came too late and they had gotten one from someone else, they were the wrong color. And in all things, there were the constant cries of “Cold construct!” and “Knockoff!” The slurs flew as easily as normal conversation.

Derogatory words weren’t the only troubling things he heard. Every now and again he heard snippets of what was happening in the outside world- the main trade routes to Altihex were closing down because there were so few available to keep them maintained; Rodion’s entire police staff had been replaced by Functionaries; every Spectralist Church in Uraya had been closed down; Iacon, Tarn, and both Upper and Lower Petrohex were becoming embroiled in civil unrest due to poor treatment of an apparently arbitrary selection of their citizens by the Functionist Council.

Yet still, the Senator told Prowl to keep his chin up. (He had actually gotten socked on the chin when a customer had been too displeased.) Prowl did. He kept at his job as professionally as he had in the other three Corners. He kept his optics on the seventeen endorsements at the end of the sub-cycle; if he got those, then he’d become officially registered, and all the abuse would be worth it.

If he was being honest, Hightower’s involvement in the whole thing was what made the job even slightly bearable. As he had found out on his second day, the burly red bot and Heavy Load had holed themselves up in town to work on a “secret project.” Hightower would put in orders every week, and every week those orders went through Xeon, then after much moaning from the Advocate, through the streets shortly after.

They were small at first, just like every other order. “Five decks of playing cards.”

“Thirteen quarts of Altihexian cold propex. Sorry it took so long.”

“5000 bolts.”

“I don’t get it, Hightower,” he said one night after a hard day’s work. The pair sat atop a pitifully small pile of girders with a cooler between them. “I thought you said I’d do big things. The biggest things I’m doing so far are avoiding kicks and enduring insults.”

“You gotta build yourself up to the _big_ things by doing the _small_ things,” replied the burly red bot, passing over a can of Sistexican soda. “In doing that, you show that you’re reliable, and when you’re reliable, then you’ll start doing the big things. The things that have the most visible effect. You’ll get to where we want you to be soon enough, Prowl, and I’ll be there to help you get there.”

“Like you’re doing now?”

“Like I’m doing now.” Hightower sipped his can and pulled a face. “Didn’t I put in an order for magnesium and _cherry?_”

“Sorry.”

The “sorry”s came more frequently as Prowl had to deliver more and more bad news every day.

“Request for delay declined again? You tell Eronus that reconstruction of the jail can’t happen if we don’t get those girders we ordered _months_ ago!”

“Another excuse! Esserlon’s literally right next door! There should be no reason they can’t just send over the 500 tons of permacrete they said they would! At this rate, the Altihex trade routes will stay closed!”

A datapad dodged. “I don’t want the fragging reimbursement! I want back my stolen materials so I can _rebuild my fragging house!_”

“The people are getting restless, Senator,” reported Prowl another night. “They’re upset that they don’t have the construction supplies they need to keep the town running. One of them made a good point- Esserlon is right next door. I’m registered to export goods from there. Why can’t I just go home and bring back what everyone’s making a fuss over?”

The Senator shuffled through an enormous stack of datapads. “I doubt you’d be able to do it all yourself, young Prowl,” he replied. “According to these reports, Esserlon and Cybertron’s other industrial sectors can’t produce materials fast enough. You’d be going back and forth until you burned out.”

“At least I’ll be burning myself out doing something noticeably helpful.”

Eronus set down a datapad reporting another theft of materials by someone rumored to be red in color. “I _promise_ you, if you get officially registered, you’ll be sent out to transport supplies as often as you want. But until then, delivering little things will give the town some of the consistency it’s craving.”

But in the end, the little things didn’t add up. The end of the sub-cycle came, and Prowl had only succeeded in getting two signatures of recommendation on his form (from Hightower and Heavy Load, naturally). It was with downturned optics and a heavy spark that he made his way to town hall to declare failure to Eronus…

Only to find that Xeon wasn’t at his receptionist desk. In fact, the Advocate’s desk was nowhere to be found. In its place were two even taller functionist totems and a new pair of leering faces- Functionaries. They stood guard at the door to the Senator’s office, hands conspicuously resting on the handles to their blasters.

“I’m here to see the Senator,” Prowl said as confidently as he could.

The Functionary on the right growled, but both moved to open the door. The one on the left roughly shoved Prowl through it, because the black-and-white bot had stopped as soon as he saw who was behind the Senator’s desk.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the knockoff back again.”

“_Advocate Xeon?_”

The Advocate waved an oily purple finger. “Ah-ah-ah, _Incumbent Senator_ Xeon to you.” He gestured to a shiny nameplate on the desk. “Eronus was called away for emergency business.”

“When will he be back?”

“Who knows?”

“I suppose I should let you know, then, that I failed to get seventeen Petrexian citizens to vouch for my service. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

Xeon chuckled smugly. “Oh, it was for lack of something, alright.” He took Prowl’s datapad and hit it with the electronic stamp again. “Prowl of Esserlon, for failing to meet the goal set by the previous Senator, your application for official courier registry is denied… _again_… and any further attempts to register for work will be similarly denied.”

That was it, then. It was over in not even a minute. The black-and-white bot stared forlornly at the electronic stamp, its letters seeming to mock him. Against the odds, he had been given a chance to achieve his goal, to prove that constructed cold bots were useful, that they had worth. And it had resulted in failure. He hadn’t passed the milestone of officially registering for couriership in Petrex. He felt he had let Hightower, the rest of the gang, every other cold constructed bot, _himself_ down in his failure.

He turned to go, and the Incumbent Senator couldn’t seem to keep himself from saying, “See you around, knockoff.”

“Stop calling me that!” cried Prowl, spinning on his heel. “I can’t help the way I was born, and I’m tired of everyone treating me as inferior because of it! I can do this job! I can do anything a forged bot can do! I have _worth!_ I’m just as good as you!” It was the first time in a long time he had actively tried to stand up for himself. He had no idea if it was a good effort or not.

It wasn’t.

Xeon leaned forward, a dark look on his face. The slickness of the oil on his face caught the light of the room in various disconcerting ways. “No you can’t. No you don’t. And no you aren’t. You’re a product of _blasphemy_, a denial of duty to the Guiding Hand, and it’s your lot to always be treated as such. The sooner you accept that, the sooner everyone can get back to focusing on what really matters.”

He snapped his fingers, and the two Functionaries from outside came in and grabbed Prowl by the shoulders. The last thing he saw before they tossed him out of town hall was Xeon’s smug grin.

Prowl hit some other bot before he hit the ground, the impact making a loud clang and eliciting a grunt from both. When he looked up, he saw Heavy Load’s distinct yellow bulk standing over him smattered in dust.

“Did they…?” the yellow bot asked.

The black-and-white bot nodded. That prompted Heavy Load to approach the Functionaries angrily.

The next stretch of time was a blur. In order- Prowl caught “You can’t treat him like that!” in Heavy Load’s tirade. The Functionaries replied and shoved him away from town hall. Heavy Load retaliated with more swears and a shove of his own, which the Functionaries returned. Passing bots saw the scuffle and joined with Heavy Load in airing their grievances verbally, hoping that Xeon and the Functionaries might finally pay attention to their voices if not their letters. Prowl got caught up in the crowd, jostled painfully back and forth between bodies.

Protesting turned to shouting. Shouting turned to violence. More Functionaries were called and got swept up in the riot.

And after what seemed like hours, though it was probably only several minutes, Prowl and most of the rioters found themselves in the pokey.

~

Prowl could see why the bots on his delivery route wanted the jail fixed. Everything was covered in a thin patina of rust. There was a large hole in the ceiling, leaving the floor sopping wet every time it rained. At least the hole allowed natural light in- most of the jail’s lightbulbs were burned out or broken. Combine that with the seemingly random lashing out by Warden Functionary 113, and the Petrex jail became a wholly unpleasant place to be. But then, he supposed, most prisons by their nature were unpleasant.

He stayed in there for a week, subsisting off of infrequent energon cubes and watching the bot in the cell across from him pick at an exposed and leaking energon conduit, before someone who wasn’t 113 came to see him. “Up, scum,” said the warden, “you’ve been _bailed out_.” He stepped aside from Prowl’s cell to reveal who he had been escorting.

“Hightower!” Prowl exclaimed before being hit on the head by the warden’s nightstick.

“Neither of you will speak to each other until you’ve left the premises,” said 113.

And neither of them did, not until 113 was out of audial-shot. It was sunset when they left, but instead of the usual trickling of bots going home for the night, the weary few bots that had escaped incarceration continued to plug discontentedly away at their diminished construction work, casting angry glares at the increased number of Functionaries patrolling.

“It’s my fault,” said Prowl.

Hightower placed a hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “No it’s not.”

“I started the riot that got everyone arrested.”

“The Functionaries did. They’ve been throwing their weight around too much lately.”

“Yeah, because I lubricated Xeon off with my very presence. I _failed_, Hightower. Instead of making Petrex a better place I made it worse.”

“No, you didn’t fail.” The look in the burly red bot’s visor was… odd, a mixture of pride and pity. “You did _exactly_ what we set out to do. Look around you.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “If the functionists weren’t so concerned with policing alt mode talk and rejecting your aid because of your birth, these bots would be getting the manpower, the supplies, the _help_ they need to keep living their lives. And the riot was them finally making their complaints unable to be ignored.”

Prowl thought about Hightower’s words, about how almost everyone here aside from Eronus and Hightower had rejected him. (He hoped the Senator’s business trip was going well.) Maybe now that they were desperate, they’d see that the help of a constructed cold bot could be just as valued as that of a forged bot. That was what they’d set out to do, wasn’t it?

Maybe his daily little things had indeed led to something big. He took strange pride in his causing of trouble.

~

Two days later one final complaint was lobbied against the Petrex functionists.

_The Functionary barracks were bombed._

Hightower did it and left Prowl to take the fall.

And Prowl came face to face with the Functionist Council for the first, last, and only time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my entire soul hurts  
this chapter was hard to write, both because of delay-induced burnout and because i wanted to put so much stuff in here; it was hard to find proper space for it all. i got the biggest thing in here, though, and that was prowl's long-time-coming talk with the constructicons. i really enjoyed writing the constructicons giving their reasons for sticking around, and adding a new dynamic to their relationship with mixmaster being the only forged one among them. the last line of that section of the chapter is my favorite line in this fic so far.  
the events in the functionist universe were a bit trickier to write. because it covered a long stretch of time, writing every single detail in that time would have taken up quite a lot of space, so i only really elaborated on the major ones- the deal, the conflicts, the riot, and the literal bombshell at the end- and left the others as little glimpses and hints. i'll elaborate on those glimpses and hints in the next chapter, i promise, but i'm glad i put them in here; i think they do a good job of showing just how bad functionist cybertron is getting.  
up next: what prowl does next, and how hightower did it


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything turns out okay... for one Prowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ay-yi-yi, you came at a bit of a bad time. I'm almost completely out of drinks! Yeah, somebody raided the bar again and I've been scrambling to try and get everything restocked before mandated business-opening hours. Why's it always _me_ that gets stuff stolen? Anyway, you're not here to listen to me complain, are you? Of course not, so I won't complain. I'd be a pretty bad bartender if I spent the entire time complaining to customers.
> 
> "So, what's happened? Oh, lots of stuff, lots of stuff. Not here, of course, but in that alternate universe I mentioned last time. Remember that? You don't? I guess you wouldn't, because why would you be asking me for a recap if you did? Okay, recap time!
> 
> "And yes, before you ask, everything is about Scowl.
> 
> "I said Prowl. Yes I did. What are you talking about? I said Prowl the first time!
> 
> "I'm gonna try to make this brief, because I'm tired and I need to get things cleaned up ASAP. In this universe, Prowl finally decided to have a meeting with the Constructicons to talk about their feelings, or whatever it is that bots do at meetings. I wouldn't know, because I've never been to a meeting in my life. Keep in mind that to get to this meeting, Long Haul had to stop helping First Aid in administering the poison antidote to everyone on the _Lost Light_ and the _Vis Vitalis_\- yes, I'm still salty about that. In the story proper, I'm still knocked out! Hurry up and wake me up, already!
> 
> "So they had their meeting, and it turned out that the Constructicons actually really did care about Prowl and wanted to stick around with him, which surprised him a lot... and frankly, me too. He's been nothing but an _aft-hole_ this whole quest, why would anyone want to stick around with him?
> 
> "You do? Boy, do you have some _scuffed_ tastes.
> 
> "So blah blah blah, sentimental stuff happened in this universe, and I guess Prowl wants to be a better person or something? I wish him all the luck in the world, but it's definitely gonna be hard for him to get there. It's gonna be hard for anyone to actually believe it, too. I still don't. Not really.
> 
> "The alternate universe? Oh, now _that's_ where things get interesting. See, over there, Prowl tried to become a delivery boy for Petrex, because they were really hurting for supply runners over there. A bit of a low aspiration, if you ask me, but to each their own. Anyway, you know how it is- was?- in Petrex, being anti-cold construction and all, so of course they wouldn't let him work there, but plot twist, the Senator decided to hire him anyway to test public reaction and maybe get the 'no knockoffs' laws repealed.
> 
> "Yes, I'm still using that word. Shut up.
> 
> "Prowl got his wish, yeah? So he should have been happy, right? _Wrong_. For starters, Petrex was still anti-cold construction, so you can imagine that they didn't take a particular shine to Prowl working there. Not like they would have liked him in any better circumstances; they were so low on manpower and spread so thin that they couldn't even keep their houses in proper shape!
> 
> "Yeah, it's because the Functionist Council posted them to build and fix stuff everywhere else on Cybertron. Outstanding move.
> 
> "The Senator got replaced with an even bigger piston, and Prowl got denied work so hard. Boo-hoo, yeah, whatever. That led to a riot- because of course the Petrexians had had enough of all the slag going on in their lives!- and _that_ led to Prowl getting arrested for a week.
> 
> "He was bailed out, so don't worry, you little Scowl sympathizer.
> 
> "I did not! I said Prowl! Fix your audials, dude.
> 
> "Oh, and then a bomb went off.
> 
> "Yeah, everybody in that universe made that same face. The one you're making right now. Though, in my opinion they should have seen it coming. Seems that in any universe, major discontent always leads to a bomb going off. It's like a multiversal singularity or something. I think.
> 
> "Alright, I said I'd keep things brief and I didn't, because the number of remaining characters in this box is way low. But I think I got the basics out of the way, so here you go, I guess. Have fun reading what happens to both Scowls.
> 
> "... If you say that one more time, I'm not giving you a drink. I said Prowl the first time, I swear! I did, I did!"

The Mediator and the Enactor stand at the floor of the amphitheater that is the Grand Imperium, addressing the assembled Senate who are quite understandably shocked at their unannounced intrusion. At their feet is the corpse of the heretic Tyrest that the Castigator has so lovingly butchered… but not before Tyrest told them who approved his little operation. It took a surprisingly short time to extract that information- less than two days. His will must have been terribly weak after all.

The Enactor points an accusing finger at Nominus Prime. “_Blasphemer_,” he says simply, venomously.

There is uproar in the assembly, and the Mediator finds himself once again impressed with his colleague’s ability to inspire such strong reaction with naught but his voice. It is a smooth voice, full of fervor and charisma, perfect for an orator and an Enactor of functionist doctrine.

The Enactor decides to stoke the fire. “Gathered Senators, it is with deepest regret that I must shed the light of truth upon the leader you hold so dear. He has committed blasphemy of the _highest order_ by reviving Nova Prime’s failed attempt at population expansion, and thus denying the Guiding Hand of their creation duties. The misfortunes that have befallen our glorious planet- energon shortages, conflict between the people at every step- the burden of these misfortunes lie on _his_ shoulders. The stain of his crimes, and the crimes of everyone involved with him-” he nudges Tyrest’s oozing body with his foot- “must be washed away.”

“Come off it!” shouts one of the Senators above the rest. “Always going on about the Guiding Hand and their duties! Find a _new argument_, or stop arguing!”

His statement reeks of hypocrisy, but the Enactor remains outwardly unruffled. “When a duty of any sort is denied, Cybertron suffers. The Guiding Hand have not done their due work in quite some time.” He trails off, inviting the Senator to do the rest of the math.

The Prime lowers his hovering disc platform to more closely interact with the Council members. “Perhaps it is this… lack of due work that has caused us to step in and do it for them. I don’t know if Tyrest told you this, but Vector Sigma’s pulse waves will soon cease, and the Cybertronian race will be set on a decline. We may soon become an _endangered species_. I revived my predecessor’s program in an attempt to bolster our numbers once again.”

“The only thing you have bolstered, O Prime,” the Enactor spits, placing mocking emphasis on the title, “is _discrimination_. You have created an inferior mockery of the Guiding Hand’s craft. You know this. The laity knows this. And that is why your handiwork is ridiculed, and that is why the rifts in our society continue to grow.”

“There would be no rifts,” says Nominus, “if the commoners would simply fall in line with the status and privileges that they have been born with. This conflict is a result of them being dissatisfied, wanting more.”

The Mediator and the Enactor both know that the core reason behind the dissatisfaction is due to the presence of cold construction, and they know that its presence would not be a problem if Nominus had not gone back on his word and implemented it. The Enactor makes this known to the assembled Senate. The normally tall and imposing Prime seems to shrink at this further proclamation of his heresy. Good, thinks the Mediator.

“Perhaps a major change in policy would turn this from merely an _illusion_ of progress,” says the Enactor, “into _actual_ progress.”

“What do you propose?” Nominus asks.

A hand emerges from the Enactor’s cloak, and he gestures for the Mediator to take the stage. He knows that his oratory skills cannot match his colleague’s, but he does not have to match, for the presentation of the proposal he and the rest of the Council have discussed is simple and has no need for added flair. “A removal of any constructed cold element of Cybertronian society,” he says. “Dismantling every Con Facility, defunding the Relinquishment Clinics and any other ‘alteration of form’ service… the _snuffing out_ of every constructed cold spark on Cybertron.”

One more, there is uproar in the assembly. Perhaps the Mediator has picked something up from the Enactor.

The Enactor picks up the speech, raising his hands. His cloak parts, and the Mediator glimpses his colleague’s lusty plating of blue and bronze. “How shall the laity object to sharing Cybertron with inferiors, if there are no _inferiors?_ How shall the heathens clamor for undeserved higher privileges, if there are no _heathens?_ This culling will serve as a mighty first step in healing society, and atoning for the sins of Nominus Prime.”

The Senator from earlier raises his voice again. “What you are proposing is _genocide!_ These constructed cold bots are Cybertronians in their own right! It doesn’t matter how they were born; what matters is that they have feelings! Wills! The capacity to make Cybertron a better place! We must give them a _chance_, not _exterminate_ them!” The Mediator gets a better look at this outspoken Senator- a rather gaudily-colored fellow whose name escapes him at the moment.

“I object!” Ah, now _this_ Senator the Mediator recognizes. “These knockoffs have brought us nothing but trouble,” declares Proteus. “More bodies to fuel in exchange for worse quality work! Let us not forget Petrex’s great construction disaster of 1st Cycle 209, which was caused by knockoffs! Cybertron is better without them.”

Proteus and the other Senator argue for several moments before Nominus silences them. “No,” he says to the Council members. “I will not allow this culling of our race. They _are_ inferior- on that you and I agree- but they are also our only chance at survival.”

The Enactor seems to be biting back a barb, so the Mediator steps in again. “An _amendment_, then. Your… subordinate informed us in his interrogation that the spark crystals found at the Decagon are not all that exist. There are other stockpiles elsewhere. We will not snuff out the still-living constructed cold, in exchange for the destruction of these stores.”

“I will allow the dismantling of Con Facilities and defunding of Relinquishment Clinics in functionist-controlled cities,” declares Nominus, to objections from half of the assembled Senate. “But the storage of the spark crystals is under my authority, and will continue to be. You will not touch them. If Vector Sigma ceases to ignite the hot spots and we are left with no souls to replace lost ones, you _will_ regret the loss.”

The heart of Primus cannot cease to function. The Prime still holds fast to his heresy, refusing to allow Primus and Adaptus to revive their race as they did in times past. The Mediator can tell this disappoints his colleague, but the Enactor bows despite. An elegant motion, from an elegant bot. “A worthy compromise,” he says.

They leave to the sound of another shouting match, and now the Mediator remembers the name of the gaudy Senator from earlier- Shockwave.

Later that evening the Mediator joins the Inquisitor and the Castigator in going behind the Senate’s back and deactivating every cold storage system tied to the Decagon.

Later that month the Mediator feels his connection to Vector Sigma _weaken_.

~

A long time passes.

It is now after the declaration, and the Mediator does not have to worry about the division and hypocrisy of the Senate, or of Nominus Prime, any more. The faithful will take care of that. The problem of Vector Sigma’s sealing will also be solved in due time. For now, the Mediator busies himself with making essential changes to the way things are run.

For a time, he toys with the idea of allowing some of the functionist loyalists to escape the upheaval and retain some measure of power. They will be Senators in name only, he thinks to himself; in practice they will be nothing more than glorified mayors. All that will matter will be their ability to consistently enforce the truth that the Council feeds them in their cities.

His ideal playground currently consists of three loyal cities- Mebion, Ambustus Minor, and Petrex. A small start. He has no doubt that the Senators of the first two- Templar and Neo, respectively- and the Advocates under them will keep everything in order. As for Eronus of Petrex, the Mediator must admit he has his doubts. Eronus has seemed to waver in his loyalties, and has been light-handed in his administration in the past; notably, his apparent reluctance to enforce the new bylaw preventing those constructed cold from seeking employ. Those doubts are cast aside for now, as the Mediator believes this experiment of his will be a good opportunity for Eronus to show his true colors.

~

A short time passes.

“How goes the crusade, Enactor?” the Mediator asks one evening. They sit on a balcony with a bottle of thrice-distilled engex between them, overlooking the artisan city of Tesarus, which unknown to the regulars there will soon be demolished if the Council’s endeavor succeeds. The art of a forged body is all that need be crafted under the gospel.

The Enactor takes a sip. “Quite well, actually, Mediator. Can you believe it, Nominus actually _surrendered_ yesterday. Both himself and the locations of his hidden spark crystal stores. I personally thought that nothing short of death would ensure our victory, yet here is Nominus, raising his hands in his attempt to quell the loss of life.” The Mediator takes note of the Enactor’s lack of use of Nominus’ title.

“He will still be _executed_, I imagine?”

“Oh yes, definitely; him and the rest of the Senate. We cannot allow leaders who have forsaken their integrity to continue to lead. The Castigator intends to hold the ceremony at dawn in two days’ time. Will you attend?”

“If my schedule permits.” The Mediator fingers the rim of his stemmed glass before hazarding a question. “Enactor… I wonder if you might _spare_ three of the scheduled from execution.” He explains his idea to the Enactor, who listens intently. “It would only be the loyalists spared, you see. Perhaps if this experiment is successful, we might raise others up to take charge of other cities all across Cybertron.”

The Enactor takes another sip, draining his glass. “An intriguing proposal. Epistemus knows that the laity already objects to the rule we had before. Perhaps hiding ourselves behind friendlier faces will make them fall more willingly in line with our rule now.”

“It will be difficult,” admits the Mediator. “Much administration will need to be done to ease the transition of power, as well as prevent discovery of our puppeteering.”

“I imagine so.” He rubs his hands together almost eagerly. “This is a divine process, for what is holier than revealing the truth through mouthpieces, as Primus himself has done throughout the ages?”

Yes. Divine. _That_ is the first word that comes to the Mediator’s mind when he thinks of his experiment.

“Will you help me in this, Enactor?” he asks.

As he refills his glass- “Of course.”

The elegant curves and subtle colors of Tesarus’ buildings in the setting sun are ignored. As far as the Mediator is concerned, in that moment the Enactor with his appearance and actions is the superior work of art.

He goes to recharge that night grateful that the Enactor is his colleague.

~

Two days later the Mediator witnesses Nominus’ death at the hands of the Castigator. The former Prime does not beg for his life.

~

Another short time passes.

The Mediator reads the weekly datapads.

Lack of Con Facilities and lack of access to the great spark computer of Vector Sigma means that there is now plenty of energon to go around to a consistent population, which should be cause for rejoicing.

With the Enactor’s help, the Mediator’s puppets are now in place, as are most of the Functionaries. Mebion is a surprisingly easy shift- Templar is very eager to displace both his police force and his city perimeter patrol and reassign them to menial duties, almost fervently so. Ambustus Minor has presented slightly more trouble, as Neo wishes to avoid potential outcry from the soon-to-be-reassigned police officers.

But why should there be outcry, says the Council? Primus and Adaptus have blessed them with a variety of tasks their alt modes can help them achieve well.

Nevertheless, the installation of Functionaries is a slow trickle under Neo, compared to Templar’s flash flood. For every two laid off, one Functionary personally supplied by the Enactor replaces them.

Petrex has little time to focus on reallocation of power before its services are put to work. Much of Cybertron has been damaged in the uprising against the heathen Senate. To this end the Mediator orders from Eronus an export of two dozen construction/demolition workers- leaving enough for them to fix their own town- to begin reparations of Iacon’s religious quarter… and to begin finally tearing down the Decagon.

Petrex is a construction-class town; its citizens are naturally kept too busy in building to be their own law enforcement. Functionaries have always been present there, but nobody notices their slow increase in number.

~

A longer time passes.

The Mediator reads the weekly datapads.

Templar has recently carried out an execution of every constructed cold bot in Mebion.

The Enactor has taken his methods to Rodion, where a Functionary displacement of the entire police force occurs very similar to the one in Mebion.

There is more work to be done across Cybertron. Riots and pushback cause more damage, cause major trade routes and causeways to fall into disrepair, cause the material production centers to overwork, causes the Mediator to order more and more exports of workers from Petrex, causes Altihex to export higher quantities of reserved energon to all workers at the cost of lower quality processing, causes more riots and pushback. It is a vicious cycle.

What makes it worse is that the Mediator’s experiment, at least in Petrex, seems to be _failing_.

The Mediator has begun meeting with Petrex’s Advocate, Xeon, with increasing regularity. This is slightly odd- the way he has things set up, the Senator is the primary communicator- but it is somewhat understandable. If the Advocate speaks true, then Eronus has almost too much to deal with in his daily administrations.

“The commoners are unhappy,” says Xeon one day. He uses too much plating polish, and the light of the Bitrexian sunset reflects painfully off it into the Mediator’s single optic. “There are fewer workers to keep the buildings from falling into shambles. They complain about being on the fast track to living in _squalor_.” A verbatim quote from one of the datapads the Advocate has given the Mediator at the start of their meeting. “If it pleases the Council, Eronus and I would like to request that some of the workers you have borrowed… return home?”

If there are fewer bots living in Petrex, then there are fewer bots to complain, but the Mediator does not say this. Instead he says, “There is much that needs to be reconstructed, Xeon. But rest assured that when your builders are finished in their service outside their home, every one of them will return to service inside.”

But there is always more work to be done, and the builders of Petrex do not go home.

“What am I looking at?” asks the Mediator another day, raising his voice over the sound of the crowd in the Unitrexian spaceport. He looks at a different datapad that Xeon has given him with a level of confusion not present in his previous observations.

“A list of materials that have disappeared in the past two months,” Xeon replies, simpering. “Not major things on their own, but with the reduced workforce, and shipping being delayed… the commoners notice. They suspect that someone is _stealing_, and frankly, so do we.”

“And neither you nor Eronus has ordered your Functionaries to investigate?”

“We have, Mediator, but they haven’t found any evidence to support this theory yet. We do have a suspect, though.”

“Explain.”

The Advocate hands over another datapad with a mugshot of a red bot on it. “His name is _Hightower_, Mediator. He’s a knockoff built in Petrex’s old Con Facility 007 and got a special license to work there. Best to keep the inferiors with their own kind; you know how it is.” The Mediator nods. It is good that the town’s Advocate knows every aspect of the bylaws they enforce, even the pesky exceptions- it is their job to know, as legal experts. “Well, he’s returned from an extended stint in the Decagon relatively recently, and 730 tells me he hasn’t been doing much aside from making numerous back-and-forth trips between _Petrex_ and _Esserlon_. It’s possible that he is taking the stolen materials there.”

The Mediator pinches his non-existent chin. “I will coordinate an investigation into this matter with Levitacus and his Functionaries,” he says.

But Levitacus’ Functionaries investigate Hightower’s frequented locales in Esserlon and find nothing incriminating.

~

“_Eronus has employed a knockoff_.”

This is what Xeon leads with when he makes an appearance, unannounced, at the demolition of the last Spectralist Church in Uraya that the Mediator, the Disseminator, and the Enactor are overseeing. How he has gotten through the clot of patrolling Functionaries escorting the almost-rioting Spectralists away from the Tri-Torus Loop, none of the Council knows. But he comes through, and the distress on his face is matched only by the distress in his voice as he makes the declaration.

The Disseminator throws his datapad angrily; it hits a protestor in the head. “What?!” he cries.

“Calm yourself, Disseminator,” says the Mediator, placing a hand on his colleague’s shoulder. His tone, however, is incredibly stern. He commands the Advocate- “Explain.”

And Xeon does. He explains that the Senator has had one Prowl of Esserlon employed as an off-the-books courier for the past several weeks, in order to gauge public interest in _appealing_ the anti-knockoff bylaws. The cogs turn in the Mediator’s head. It is not hard for him to assume that Hightower’s noted visits to Esserlon have been done in correspondence with this Prowl character; perhaps he has been taking the stolen materials for Prowl to hide. This reopened theory becomes more troubling as Xeon presents another datapad, with a list of specific items requested by, and delivered to, Hightower.

“Cold propex? A replacement fuel pump? Chronometer repair kits? Combine this with the missing materials, and you have the ingredients to cook up a makeshift _bomb_.”

“This cannot stand!” the Disseminator shouts. “Such a weapon in the hands of _inferiors_ risks breaking all that we have striven to build back up! We must investigate this at once!”

“Eronus gave the knockoff a deadline to get his signatures of support- the end of the sub-cycle,” supplies the Advocate. “I fear that if a bomb really is being made, it may go off on that day when the campaign fails.”

The Enactor pinches his non-existent chin. “I must admit, Mediator, I had faith that you would _prevent_ the forming of troubling theories such as this in your experiment. I would not have given you my support if you were to fail.”

“Wait. There is a way that we can prevent this possibility,” says the Mediator, desperate to try and win back the Enactor’s support. “I will arrange this with Levitacus as well, but I want Functionaries tailing Hightower at every emergence from his dwelling. He does not go _anywhere_, do _anything_ without me knowing of it. An investigation of every locale he enters is to be carried out after he leaves. If none of the stolen materials are found in his association, then by his innocence we will remove the accusations against him. You cannot build a bomb without the proper wiring and bolts.”

“You would give the inferiors a chance to prove themselves?” the Disseminator snarls. He waves the propaganda datapad he carries around with him. “They are low! Unskilled! Graven images!”

“They will prove that themselves,” says the Enactor, tenting his fingers. “These riots have all been instigated by the constructed cold, have they not? They lack the _emotional control_ that we forged bots possess. Disseminator, you will hit Petrex with a fresh wave of the teachings; make it so that this Prowl of Esserlon knows that he is not welcomed there, or anywhere. Given time, he will break, he will lash out as they always do, and then we will pounce on him.”

“And what of Eronus?” Xeon asks finally.

The Disseminator scoffs. “Surely you will not wait to punish the lawbreaker and the heathen?”

“Your fervor is appreciated, Disseminator,” the Mediator replies, “but not everything in our reforms can be done instantly. We must let time be our ally if we are to get our message to sink in.” He turns to Xeon and places a hand on his slick head. “Eronus has shown his true colors; let him think that his game will play out in his favor. On the day before the deadline, I will come to take him away for _processing_, and you will be granted the position of Incumbent Senator. I have faith that you will not fail where he has.”

Out of the corner of his optic, he sees the Enactor nod approvingly. His spark swells.

~

A short time passes.

The Mediator reads the weekly datapads.

The Titanium Turnpike leading out of Altihex has finally collapsed, leaving only more winding and more dangerous trade routes accessible.

The bots of Ambustus Minor have assassinated Neo.

Petrex continues to fall by the wayside, but in time the workers will be able to return to fix their home, and there are currently much more pressing matters than the state of its buildings to attend to.

“What is your report, 097?”asks the Mediator. The Functionary captain assigned to tail Hightower stands before the desk, navy plating almost blending into the darkness of the room. 097 hands over a new datapad and leaves, allowing the Mediator to peruse its contents in solitude.

The datapad contains a full report of Hightower’s activities in Petrex and Esserlon. His time in Esserlon’s Con Facility 036 and his time spent with four particular associates there is specially recorded. This is understandable- Hightower is licensed to work in Con Facilities with other licensed bots- and this is (regrettably) not incriminating- Con Facility 036 is currently aiding in the processing of building materials during the crisis. Aside from this, it is as Xeon has reported. He does not do much besides travel between cities and accept packages from Prowl.

Hightower continues to be rigorously observed by the Functionaries, but to the Mediator’s chagrin there is no evidence suggesting he has any connection to the stolen materials. The accusations are temporarily dropped.

Xeon observes and reports Prowl of Esserlon’s remaining courier activity. The Mediator is surprised to learn that even with the Disseminator’s work done flawlessly, Prowl does not break. He continues to work and act professionally despite the verbal and sometimes physical abuse. No incriminating connections are found in him, either. Perhaps because this investigation has been discovered, the items that Hightower orders and Prowl delivers are kept inane.

The end of the sub-cycle nears. Eronus is taken away for his processing. Xeon denies Prowl’s thankfully failed attempt to officially register. A small riot follows, but this is not started by Prowl, and the Functionaries clean it up quickly.

That, it seems, is the end of that.

~

A _very_ short time passes.

The bomb Xeon suspected is detonated.

And the Mediator pays another visit to Petrex much sooner than he would like.

~

Prowl of Esserlon didn’t need to unshutter his optics to know that he was kneeling in a dark room.

There was a distinct lack of light shining through his slightly transparent optical shutters… not that he’d be able to tell anyway with his right optic. The beating he had freshly received from the Functionaries had practically offlined it to the point of uselessness, while leaving the rest of his plating aching from all the dents. Behind his back, his wrists stung from the steel cable digging into them.

His ringing audials picked up the sound of a door opening, and he felt the butt of a firearm nudge him in the side of the head hard enough to knock him over. “Unshutter,” a voice that didn’t belong to a Functionary commanded.

His vision was hazy and the room was dim, but Prowl could clearly make out a tall, rail-thin bot plated in teal and concealed in a cloak standing over him. Two Functionaries flanked him, and he held something red in his hands.

“Do you know why you are here?” asked the teal bot.

“I imagine… rrgh… I’m going to find out,” Prowl replied. His voice sounded full of static.

The teal bot crouched to more closely face Prowl; his single optic was disconcerting. Prowl had only seen faces like this on bots who had been marked out for punishment by the Functionist Council. “You are here, because of _this_.” The teal bot set the red thing down right in front of Prowl’s head, and the black-and-white bot’s spark felt cold.

_It was Hightower’s head._

The teal bot continued, “We found this at the scene of the bombing earlier today; the last remains of the perpetrator, no doubt. There was a data slug inside it-” he caressed the crack in the darkened visor- “a data slug that carried a very interesting recording. Would you like to know what it said?” Prowl shook his head no. “No? Well, that is unfortunate, because apparently this bot had some _very interesting_ things to say about you.”

“I’ve never seen this bot in my life. What could he possibly have to say about me?” Prowl flimsily tried to object. But he knew that the widening of his optics had betrayed his shock at seeing the remains of the one he considered his only real friend.

“Would you like to know what it said?” the teal bot repeated venomously.

“_My name is Hightower, and by the time you see this, I will be _dead_,_” said the recording projected onto the floor, audio crackling every few seconds. “_I was constructed cold in Petrex, and because of my birth, I was treated as less deserving of life than the forged. I was not allowed to work, I was not allowed to fuel myself enough to function well, and I was not allowed to set foot on much Functionist ground. This recording, and my actions, are me saying on behalf of all constructed cold bots- _enough.

“_I have used my vessel Prowl, a fellow cold construct, to aid me in gathering the materials needed to construct the bomb built into my body, and to foment discontent in Petrex. The bomb will hopefully be the final push needed to begin an uprising; if the Functionist Council will not allow their people aid when they need it the most, then we will have to fight to get it ourselves. You will not be able to incarcerate me, but I assure you that Prowl and my other colleagues are willing to suffer for the cause alongside me._” Prowl’s optics widened further, and he felt his optical gauze overheat as the recording’s words sank in.

“_To the Functionist Council member watching this- constructed cold bots are people too. Push us too far, and we _will_ push back._”

With that, the recording fizzled out.

The weight of the recording finally settled onto Prowl’s chestplate. “_My vessel,_” it had said. Was that all he was to Hightower? Just a vessel, a tool to be used? That honestly went a long way in explaining how he had acted over the period of time they had known each other. Never asking how he was during deliveries, and almost never interacting with him in any circumstance outside of accepting packages. Saying things like “We’ll get you to where _we_ want you to be.” Not where _he_ wanted to be.

Was _this_ the “great thing” that Hightower always seemed to go on about Prowl doing, being a small cog in a larger protest machine? Was _this_ Prowl’s destiny that he had endured all the abuse for, to be the fall guy and martyr for a protest he hadn’t even really wanted to be a part of?

Prowl had never volunteered to become a martyr.

The optical gauze flowed.

The ringing in his audials seemed to louden, and he couldn’t hear what the teal bot said after that. He felt himself being rolled over, and through the haze in his optics he saw another bot similar in shape to the teal one, except green, stand over and point down at him as if pronouncing judgment.

The Functionaries picked him up, and the tool’s world went dark.

~

When Prowl regained consciousness much, much later, his first thought was a question- why couldn’t he feel his face?

His second thought was another question- why did his entire head feel like it was being split open?

“Hush, hush, he’s waking up,” he heard a voice whisper, or maybe it just sounded quiet due to his audials slowly working their way back into full operation. Whatever the case, someone was definitely in this room with him… wherever this room was. His optics onlined shortly after- both of them? Had that been fixed? But then, why did everything still seem so hazy…?

He found himself in a dark room. The bright lamp above was the only thing illuminating the various tables and racks surrounding him; they bore strange-looking tools and devices. A readout screen of some kind- his vital signs, he realized- stood immediately next to him. Something menacing and multi-armed dangled from the ceiling just above his head. Looking down, he saw that his ankles were restrained to some kind of slab, not unlike one used for recharge. This was certainly not a room made for pleasure.

To his right, a leering orange bot polishing his hands with a cloth seemed to materialize out of the shadows. It seemed he was the source of the voice he had heard. “Oh, hello there,” he said. “You’re finally awake.”

“Where… where am I?” Prowl asked. Why couldn’t he feel his mouth move?

“You’re in my operating room,” said the orange bot. “My name is Doctor Lobe. Thank Mortilus you survived; the surgery you needed was very… _intense_, and we were afraid you might end up offlining.” The Functionaries’ beatings had been that severe? Prowl supposed he should have been grateful, but there was something about Doctor Lobe’s demeanor that didn’t sit well with him at all. “Internally, you’re perfectly healthy, although… aesthetically-” and it was here that a mad giggling entered the doctor’s voice- “we may have had to compromise.”

Doctor Lobe held up a mirror for Prowl to look in.

_He had no face._

Under his chevron lay a black pit instead, pierced only by a single glowing yellow optic. He could see his actual face laying on a table behind Doctor Lobe, right next to… his hands. He looked down at where his wrists were clamped to the slab and found that they ended in huge, unwieldy claws.

As Doctor Lobe laughed, Prowl wished that the operation had ended up offlining him.

~

The meeting had been disbanded. Long Haul had returned to help First Aid administer the antidote to Brainstorm’s poison to the rest of the _Lost Light_ and _Vis Vitalis_. Hook had snuck into Swerve’s to try and nick some drinks from the rumored secret stash hidden under the bar counter. Scavenger had decided to stay with Bonecrusher and Mixmaster in the boiler room and play cards. And Prowl of Petrex had decided to go back to the laboratory to await the return of the time travelers.

Specifically, Chromedome.

He had made a decision at the end of his meeting with the Constructicons that he would take Rung’s advice- try a little harder to show bots he said he cared about that he actually cared about them, and try to reconcile with those he had hurt. And it would start with his fragmented relationship with Chromedome, which he had carried with him most of his life.

Several minutes passed, wherein Prowl subconsciously tuned out what Magnus and Perceptor- Megatron had left- were saying into the time phone (what a _terrible_ name for that thing, he thought). Then he heard the red scientist say, “We’re bringing you back… _now_.” As if on cue, the _vop!_ of teleportation sounded and Rodimus’ team materialized in a cloud of purplish-green smoke, Brainstorm in tow.

“Once again, the universe has been saved by yours truly,” Rodimus grandstanded, shuttering his optics and waving a hand in a faux-majestic gesture. “No need to thank me, I was simply doing my job.”

“Are you kidding me?” protested Whirl. “You didn’t do squat! _I_ saved the universe with open spark surgery! _You_ just jumped us around and made a fragging show out of it!”

“Yeah, but you couldn’t have gotten to save the universe if I didn’t take you to where it needed saving!” countered Rodimus.

Cyclonus interrupted, “I believe it was _Rung_ who played the most important part in this… escapade.”

The blue cyclops chortled. “Eyebrows? Eyebrows just talked! He did nothing special, he literally just did his normal job!”

“Please, please,” chided Rung gently, obviously flustered that people were arguing about him, “we all had vital roles to play in this; there was no ‘most important role’ involved. We should all receive credit for what we did. It was… a team effort.”

“A team effort that wouldn’t have happened without _me_ kick-starting it,” joked Brainstorm.

Magnus stepped forward to clamp a set of restraints on the teal bot’s wrists. His face was very stern as he said, “You kick-starting this, and risking the stability of the _entire timeline_ in the process, is why you are being placed _under arrest_. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court…” The standard warnings faded out as Magnus marched Brainstorm to the brig, the rest of the team following behind and bickering all the while about who really did the most important thing.

All except Chromedome. The mnemosurgeon seemed quieter, more somber than usual, and hung to the back of the assembly, shuffling out of the room and passing Prowl last. He offered the black-and-white bot a weary gaze, and strangely, no verbal barb. Just a quiet “Hi, Prowl.”

Prowl uncrossed his arms. “Hi. Congratulations on saving the timeline.”

“I almost broke it. _I shot Megatron_.”

The absurdity of the statement actually caused Prowl to take a step back. “I’m sorry,” he asked, “_what?_”

“That’s why Brainstorm went back in time- not to kill Orion Pax, but to kill _Megatron_ and keep the war from breaking out. Rung talked him down, but… it got me thinking that maybe Brainstorm had the right idea. A universe where the war never happened? Where the galaxy doesn’t have to deal with our destructive tendency? That honestly sounds _pretty good_ to me.”

“A universe where there are no M.T.O’s,” said Prowl. “Brainstorm was willing to _sacrifice_ himself.”

“Killing Megatron would mean that the Functionists would outlaw _anything_ constructed cold,” said Chromedome. “No M.T.O’s, no regular constructed cold bots, no you… no _me_. Which would leave Rewind with Dominus forever. Just like he always wanted.”

Of course Chromedome would do something like this for Rewind’s sake. Primus knew that he was all the mnemosurgeon would do anything for. “Chromedome…” started Prowl, not entirely sure of what he was going to say. “Something tells me… something tells me that Rewind wouldn’t have wanted you to erase yourself because you thought it would make him happy. He did care about Dominus, but he _loved_ you. He still does. I think he’d want you to stick around long enough for your reunion.” He paused. His face remained cross, but slightly less so. “I’m… _sorry_ I belittled your relationship with him.” The apology tasted unfamiliar in his mouth.

He didn’t know if he expected one reassurance or one apology to make up for the countless years of animosity between them, but he _certainly_ didn’t expect Chromedome to say, “Thank you,” and hold out his left hand to shake. The scars on his fingertips glimmered in the light of the hallway.

Prowl shook.

~

“Rough day?”

After Chromedome, Prowl had sought out Megatron for an entirely different conversation. He had found the co-captain just as he was slouching into his hab-suite- number 113. Even with his shoulders slumped and his back bent, Megatron’s bucket-shaped head nearly brushed the top of the doorframe.

Megatron sighed before dejectedly meeting Prowl’s gaze. “Yes. I’ve just found out that the universe would be better off if I had never existed.”

“_Maybe_.” Prowl approached. “At the very least, you wouldn’t be around to form your little fan club. Call off the D.J.D.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bonecrusher managed to get the rest of my gestalt on the List. They’re going to be hunted down and the _Lost Light_ is going to be massacred again and I don’t want that to happen. _Call off the D.J.D._” It was not a request.

Megatron gave a dark chuckle at Prowl finally acknowledging that the Constructicons were his problem now. “Have you seen this?” He tapped the red square- the Autobot badge- on his chest. “They’ve never taken kindly to me telling them to let their prey go, and I highly doubt they’ll be any more cooperative if I’m wearing your colors.”

“But you made the announcement at the end of your trial. You ordered the Cons to stand down.”

“And it sounds like the D.J.D clearly _didn’t_. If I can’t call them off, no one can.”

Prowl planted his hands on his hip struts. “So that’s it?” he asked. “You’re not going to do anything? You’re just going to sit back and wait for the problem to come to you?”

“When everyone’s lining up to make sacrifices, always get to the back of the queue.”

“Except this isn’t about making sacrifices. This is about being proactive in finding a solution to a problem, standing up to _protect_ those you’ve been put in charge of. That’s what being an Autobot is all about. That’s what you _signed up for_ when you decided to become a turncoat.” Prowl heard his voice rise. “Did you even mean it when you said you wanted to try and redeem yourself? When you said you wanted to change for the better? You’ve changed, all right… for the _worse_.”

“Do you expect me to alter my very behavior overnight?” Megatron growled. “Because that’s impossible.”

“Not overnight. You’ve had months and you’ve done _nothing_. This isn’t what an Autobot would do. This isn’t-”

“What _you_ would do?” sneered the co-captain, closing the gap between him and Prowl with one step.

Prowl gulped. That hadn’t been what he was about to say, but Megatron pushed forward with that narrative. “I’ve seen what you would do, Prowl. I’ve seen it for four million years, and I think it’s _deplorable_. You pull the strings and you make the puppets you’ve set up dance the way you want, and woe betide anyone who steps out of place.” The black-and-white bot’s brows beetled. ”You think you’ve got all the answers, all the methods, and that everyone else is _wrong_ or trying to slight you.” His teeth clenched. “You say that you’re acting for the greater good, when in reality you’re just acting for _yourself_. You don’t really care about anyone you work with, you only care that you come out on top. You’re _certainly_ not asking me to call of the D.J.D because you care about the Constructicons.” His hands clenched into trembling fists. “Forgive me, but ‘what you would do’ is not what _I_ want to do.”

Megatron turned to enter his hab-suite, but turned back at the last second. And he said it.

“You know who you remind me of, with your scheming and your ego? You remind me of _Starscream_.”

The rage behind Prowl’s punch to the jaw was enough to actually knock Megatron to the floor.

“That’s for the wall.”

And Prowl left. Needless to say, he was fuming- so hard, in fact, that his internal warnings started peeping at him, alerting him of his energon heating up too high. Such anger he hadn’t felt since Optimus had tossed him away to be stuck on this fool’s errand. In his anger he didn’t know where exactly he was going; he just wanted to find somewhere quiet and far away from Megatron.

Finally, the black-and-white stopped his anger-fueled stomping to slump against the wall outside the ship’s abandoned exercise room. He lifted his head to stare into the overhead lights. Cogs started turning in his brain module.

Someone had once told Prowl that no matter how hard he tried to change, he would always end up reverting to his scheming, abrasive personality. And to a degree, that someone spoke true. Something always seemed to end up happening that required a goold old-fashioned Prowl scheme. It certainly went a ways in backing up Prowl’s theory that bots couldn’t just change, that they’d always go back to the way they were.

But… if it was his lot to always be a schemer, then he would scheme away. And in his scheming he would show everyone that he was indeed acting in everyone’s best interests, because he did indeed care about them.

Megatron was _wrong_, both in his actions lately and in his assessment of Prowl. Optimus was wrong to put Megatron in charge of the _Lost Light_. Apathetic acceptance of problems and lack of crew-protecting incentive were _not_ proper traits for a captain, Autobot or otherwise. At least in Rodimus’ case, he tried to stand up for his crew and make things happen, even if his efforts resulted in disaster.

There was nothing else for it.

If this quest was to end in any amount of success, if everyone on the _Lost Light_ was to have something of a happy ending, then Megatron would have to be removed from captaincy.

And if that was going to happen, it would take some good old-fashioned Prowl scheming.

But he’d need some help.

Prowl set his personal radio to the proper frequency, tapped it with his finger.

“Getaway?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realized that my use of "constructed cold" has used like a billion different variations throughout this  
this final chapter of the trilogy was honestly the most gimmick-y out of all of them. every chapter had a number-related gimmick- alternating between the functionist universe and main universe!prowl every one pov section, splitting the chapter into two halves for the two prowls, and here, using only three pov characters. in addition to that, there was the format of eleven-of-twelve's pov sections- present tense, the council only referring to each other by their titles, eleven-of-twelve being lowkey gay for six-of-twelve- which was an interesting new format to try. i know i said i would elaborate more on the snippets of functionist cybertron from the last chapter, and while i did that for a few, i didn't elaborate on as many as i probably should have.  
for functionist!prowl's parts, i really wanted to include a scene addressing the fates of the rest of hightower's gang, as well as the first of the knockoff deportations, but because i waited until the last minute, i ran out of time to write both of those. maybe i'll address them in a later chapter, or maybe i'll go back and add them in here later. but i'm happy with what i do have right now; while it was sad, i did enjoy writing hightower's manifesto and prowl realizing that he spent his whole life being a tool.  
i'm much more happy with main universe!prowl's portions of the chapter. i loved making all the callbacks to his thoughts and interactions with megatron in the first chapter of the fic, as well as megs making the comparison to starscream. i also really loved writing his interaction with chromedome; i promise to include more chromedome/prowl reconciliation content. shout out to prowl for doing what the tags say and slowly trying to not be a dick  
send me all your hate for this chapter's end too, lmao  
up next: confessions, new crewmates, and... shopping?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brainstorm confesses his crimes, and the boys hunt for beans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends.
> 
> In lieu of a recap before this chapter- sorry, Swerve- I want to give you all a massive apology, and an equally massive thanks.
> 
> Apology first. I’m so very sorry for making you wait so long. It’s no longer the week of July 19, which means that I broke my promise to you. I said I would have this chapter out for you by or around then, and I didn’t have it out. Life took a dip in the red for a bit after I made that announcement, and in the four months since then I made myself focus more on life than on this chapter, on this story. Things are okay now, but I still can’t help but feel that I let you down even if my excuse is legitimate.
> 
> That being said.
> 
> As I sit here on a bus back to my hometown, on _Exit Wounds_’ first anniversary, I also can’t help but feel a profound sense of gratitude. I published that first silly chapter of this first silly story on my first silly day on this site on an impulse, on a feverish desire that I thought would likely burn out after a few weeks and reduce this to just another brick in my growing wall of incomplete projects. I didn’t expect that I would end up feeling so passionate about the story that would grow out of it. I didn’t expect that it would stretch on for so long. And I certainly didn’t expect that I would receive the amount of support for it that I did.
> 
> I want to thank you all for everything. For the views, for the kudos, and for the wonderful comments. Even though I don’t dip my pen into the comments section, I do read each and every one you leave for me, and each and every one warms my heart, key-smashes and all. I love seeing the enthusiasm you leave at the ends of the chapters, and your support at the ends of the announcement posts. I want to write for others as much as I want to write for myself, and your positive reactions fuel the drive for me to continue to do so. In a way, your positive reactions play a major part in shaping the story’s outcome. They’ve certainly helped propel it as far down the timeline as it is.
> 
> Fourteen-year-old me could never have imagined writing anything that would get written feedback, let alone be seen, outside the classroom; I’m not fourteen anymore, and I still have a hard time imagining it. But here we are regardless.
> 
> Sixteen chapters. Upwards of seventy-eight thousand words, not counting the almost ten thousand I put into this new chapter. Three hundred and sixty-five days. It’s almost staggering. And that’s without looking at the other numbers in the bottom row of the box above. _Exit Wounds_ has officially become my longest, longest running, and most successful literary project to date.
> 
> And I have you all to thank for that.
> 
> Thank you so very much.
> 
> From the bottom of my heart, thank you for helping me create this story, and thank you for helping fuel my drive. I’ll do my level best not to let you down again, here, or wherever we end up.
> 
> One year.
> 
> Hot damn.
> 
> Love, -- capMARVELOUS

Lickety-Split’s systems slowly onlined again, feeding her information in a consistent, if fuzzy, stream. By the feel of it she was lying on an unfamiliar recharge slab, and by the sound of it there was someone in the room with her, shuffling around and making a lot of soft noises. When her optics fully onlined, she unshuttered them and raised her head, trying and failing to ignore the pounding ache in her processor.

Her expression immediately soured; whether it was from the hangover or from the discovery of just who she was sharing the room with, she couldn’t quite tell. Maybe it was a bit of both.

At the foot of the recharge slab, her Cybertronian date from the _Lost Light_\- what was his name again? Something ending in “Streak”- was pretending to be an action hero. He struck a series of silly, faux-dramatic poses and mimed his quad-blasters recoiling from discharge; she could even hear him whispering “Ba-_bam!_ Ba-_bam!_” as he did so. There was also a muffled and vaguely rhythmic sound coming from around him that she hadn’t noticed before. He seemed to be trying to time his poses to the beat.

She couldn’t remember the precise details of what had happened before she blacked out, but Lickety-Split could definitely remember not being impressed with this Streak fellow at all. He danced badly, ordered bad-tasting drinks, and talked too much. His play-acting right now did nothing to dispel her notion that he was… more than a bit of a _loser_. How she had ended up letting him hang out with her, she had no idea.

He reminded her a bit too much of the overeager amateur performers she used to coach back on Caminus… the overeager amateur performers that she had boarded the _Vis Vitalis_ to take a sabbatical from.

The orange Camien propped her head gently up with her elbow and, wincing against the ache, cleared her throat to get Streak’s attention.

He let out a cry of alarm as she suddenly made herself known. As his pose broke, he accidentally squeezed the trigger of the quad-blaster he held aloft; a brilliant green beam left a smoking miniature crater in the back wall, near the ceiling. When they both removed their panicked heads from their heads, he flashed her an awkward grin.

“Uh, hi,” said Streak. “Okay, I’m gonna be totally honest with you, I forgot you were here.”

~

It was after the trial.

Brainstorm sat on the floor of the brig’s holding cell 104, staring at the ceiling lights and thinking about all that had transpired recently. All that had transpired recently because of _him_. His admittedly kind of harebrained scheme to prevent the war and rescue Quark had nearly resulted in the destruction of both the entire universal timeline and himself. Maybe it was a good thing that he had failed; after all, if he didn’t exist, he wouldn’t be able to help set things right wherever they went wrong or be surrounded by bots he could call his friends. If he didn’t exist, he wasn’t so sure that many of his friends would either. (Was it selfish to think that?) Plus, how could the universe possibly cope without his presence?

… It would probably cope as well without him as it could without _Megatron_. Chromedome had presented a strong argument for his actions at Con Facility 113, an argument that he and Brainstorm shared- no Megatron, no Decepticon uprising, no war, no decimation of countless worlds, no infinite loss of lives. And, he supposed, with no Brainstorm to get involved in things, no horrific murdering machines. He was no killer, but he couldn’t help feeling a little indirectly responsible for the sparks that were snuffed out because of the weapons he made, and others used.

Ultimately, the question of whether it was good or bad that history had not been changed would forever remain a dangling “what-if.” Brainstorm hated dangling “what-if’s.” They were too tempting to leave untugged.

All things considered, he supposed he should have been grateful for the relatively light sentence he had received. The L.L.I.L.A.C inquiry panel- consisting of Rodimus, Magnus, Advocate Xaaron, and the _Vis Vitalis_’ first officer Firestar- had ruled that his series of time cases were to be destroyed, his lab hours were to be reduced and strictly supervised… and judging by the itching on his chestplate, his Autobot badge was to be temporarily removed.

He had been surprised to learn that he was not to be kicked off the _Lost Light_. Surprised, but not ungrateful.

He had _not_ been surprised to learn that he was to be barred from setting foot on the _Vis Vitalis_ ever again. He kind of deserved that one.

The brig door slid open, and the teal bot turned his head to view a familiar black-and-white figure approach, stopping just on the other side of the cell bars. Rodimus had not given him his mouthplate back, so there was nothing to hide his wry grin. “In an ideal world,” he said, “our roles would be reversed. You’d be sitting here, and I’d be standing there. And I’d be gloating. Naturally.”

Prowl tossed something into the cell and crossed his arms. “Is that yours?”

“Hey, careful with that,” said Brainstorm, picking up the object. “This is a _vintage_ flask.”

“_You_ poisoned the Constructicons that night.” It was not a question.

Brainstorm sighed. “How did you find out?”

“Call it a hunch,” replied Prowl, “or an observation of a pattern. Multiple bots don’t pass out at the same time from drink alone. When Rodimus briefed the still conscious at the pre-wake, I made the connection.” He paused. “Also, you left your flask at Swerve’s.”

“I should do a better job of cleaning up after myself. But you’re right. I won’t deny that I poisoned the Constructicons. Do you _really_ think I would try to poison two whole ships without a test run? Your posse was perfect for the job. Nobody would miss them if something happened that would leave them… less than whole.”

“Don’t call them that. Nightbeat mentioned that Swerve got the Valium from you.”

“If I hadn’t become a weapons designer, I’d make a _killing_ in the brewery industry. Swerve was practically _begging_ me to let him take it off my hands; he’s a sucker for rare brews. And mine was scratch-made, one of a kind.”

“What did you mean when you said the Valium would be a gift for more bots than just Swerve?”

“Hey, the trial’s over. Last I checked, only command can give me a grilling.”

Prowl’s frown deepened. “This isn’t part of the trial; this is a _personal issue_. You hurt bots that I’m responsible for, and I want the details. What did you mean when you said that?”

The teal bot hung his head in momentary exasperation. “Fine. What else is there to mean? That Valium would give everyone what they wanted- Swerve would get a rare brew, the Constructicons would get their favorite drink, and I would get an opportunity to run a test. All I had to do after delivery was wait.”

“You counted on them drinking it.”

“Of course I did. They kept hollering that we didn’t have any. I knew that no sane bot with a halfway-decent F.I.M chip would _willingly_ ingest that slag, but fortunately for me, the Constructicons were no sane bots with halfway-decent F.I.M chips. When they came into Swerve’s that night and started drinking, I looped the cameras in the middle deck, slipped in, carried out my experiment to what I thought were _perfect_ _results_, and slipped out. The electro-sensitive poison was, in fact, electro-sensitive.”

Prowl quirked an eyebrow. “What you _thought_ were perfect results?”

“Yeah… about that…” said Brainstorm, casting his optics around the holding cell in an embarrassed manner. “I might have… maybe… actually been trying to _kill them_ at first.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Prowl broke it. “You _what?_”

“Only at first!” the teal bot defended, raising his hands. “Again, nobody would miss them if something happened to them, and I honestly thought I’d be doing everybody a favor. Really, how many ‘Cons, ex or otherwise, do we need on this ship?” He paused. “On second thought, don’t answer that.” He sighed. “But then, you know, that pesky conscience thing got the better of me, so I lowered the poison dosage from something lethal to something that would only cripple them for a few months. Wasn’t expecting them to process it that _quickly_, though.”

“Uh-_huh_.”

There was another uncomfortable silence.

Prowl broke it again. “I should let you know that I’ve been sent to retrieve some frequency codes of yours. The ones tied to the D.J.D and your handler. You won’t be needing them anymore.”

“Sent by whom?” Brainstorm asked.

“None of your concern,” said Prowl.

“I think it is. I’ll _gladly_ hand them over, just not to you. Rodimus or someone in the Security Division can come get them; I don’t trust you.”

Prowl crouched down to get on the teal bot’s optic level. “I don’t trust you either,” he said. “After what you’ve done, I don’t think _anyone_ does. Which is why…” He uncrossed his arms to reveal something in his hand, something Brainstorm hadn’t noticed before. “… I have _this_.”

“What is that?”

“Your _confession_. Your admittance to conspiring to _kill_ your own crewmates.”

Brainstorm honestly didn’t know what else he should have expected. “Also my admittance to changing my mind about that.”

The black-and-white bot shook the recording device a little. “This can go one of two ways, Brainstorm. In order- I give this to Rodimus. He reopens your trial. You lose your Autobot badge _permanently_. You get removed from the _Lost Light_. And you go the way _Drift_ did.” He paused for emphasis. “Or, in order- you give me the frequency codes. I delete the recording. Your punishment proceeds as normal. And we pretend that this _never_ happened. It’s your choice.”

“Well, that’s no fair,” said Brainstorm. “You already know I don’t want to go the way Drift did.”

“I know it’s not fair,” said Prowl, smirking darkly. “That’s why it’s called _blackmail_.”

Yet again, Brainstorm sighed. The universe seemed dead set on making everything much harder for him than it had to be lately. In this instance, part of it, he supposed, was his own fault… but out of habit he still clung to the part of it that he supposed wasn’t his fault. “_Fine_,” he conceded after a few moments, “have it your way. I’m much too tired to argue against this right now.”

The teal bot fished about in his personal subspace and withdrew two purple chips marked with two different frequency codes- 20160727 and AM-1990. “Here.”

Prowl reached though the bars and took the chips. Brainstorm saw the black-and-white bot’s thumb move, and the light on the recording device that indicated it contained saved audio winked out. “Thank you.”

Ten minutes after Prowl had left, a security team consisting of Groove, Strafe, and Streetwise came to visit. “Alright, Brainstorm,” said Groove, “Rodimus says it’s time for you to turn over the Decepticon frequency codes you’ve been using.”

“Gladly. I was wondering when he’d get around to asking for those.” Brainstorm fished about in his personal subspace again and withdrew two completely different purple chips marked with two completely different frequency codes- 20120725 and D-891987. “Here.”

The frequency codes he had given Prowl were the backups, the ones he had been instructed to use only in the event of extreme compromise. Because he had never been extremely compromised, he had never needed to use them. Because he had never used them, there was no call history attached to them. Prowl could probe those chips all he wanted, but he would find and expose exactly zero new dirt on Brainstorm. All the dirt had been dug up in the trial, anyway.

“He also says he’s _revoking_ your _Rodimus_ _Stars_ until further notice,” added Streetwise.

Brainstorm drew in a faux-embarrassed vent. “Ah scrap, not the Rodimus Stars.”

~

Rodimus was not having a good time.

At least, that was what it looked like to First Aid. The young medic had approached the side room adjacent to the L.L.I.L.A.C inquiry panel’s makeshift courtroom to deliver a medical report to the captain, only to find him engaged in a fierce argument with a tall red Camien with a flaming head. Magnus and Advocate Xaaron were nowhere to be seen.

“What do you mean, the trial was a _joke?_” Rodimus asked.

The Camien planted a hand on her cocked hip strut. “I never said the _trial_ was a joke; I said I thought you _treated_ it like one.”

“I did _not!_ I treated it with the proper gravitas it deserved! Contrary to popular belief, I absolutely _can_ muster up gravitas for serious situations.” He then immediately contradicted himself by muttering, “That’s a fun word to say. _Gravitas_. Gra-vi-tas.”

“You fiddled with the accused’s mouthplate and rearranged the letters on Magnus’ name placard the entire time! All you _really_ did in the proceedings was deliver the verdict! And you let the accused alter it! That’s _not_ how a trial is supposed to work at all!”

“That’s why I’ve got bots like Magnus and Xaaron on board- they know how these things work, they can do all the lawyering _for_ me!”

“‘Lawyer’ is not a verb.”

Rodimus scoffed. “Like you know anything about verbs.”

“I _do_, actually,” huffed the Camien, tossing her head. “As First Officer, I issue verbs out probably more frequently than you do. As the captain-”

“_Co_-captain,” Rodimus bitterly corrected her.

The Camien sighed. “… As the _co_-captain of your ship, don’t you think you should be more involved in the proper administration and punishment of your crew?”

“I am!” exclaimed Rodimus. “Look here- _I_ was the one who pushed for Brainstorm to stay on board. You can protest about how that’s _improper_ or how the punishment doesn’t _fit the crime_ all you like, but the fact is this. Brainstorm is a valued crew member. Yes, he nearly destroyed the universe’s entire history, but he wants to _make amends_. I had somebody else here a long time ago who hurt the _Lost Light_; instead of letting him try to make amends, I pushed him _away_. I don’t want to make that same mistake again.”

“So you’re letting _personal affections_ get in the way of _impartial justice?_”

“I let Magnus handle the impartiality; he has _no_ personal affections to get in the way.”

The way the Camien handled herself, chiding Rodimus for foolishly sticking up for Brainstorm, reminded First Aid of his own stern batch proto-initiator. He must have made a noise at the recollection, because Rodimus and the Camien both turned their optics to him. “First Aid! Just in time!” exclaimed Rodimus. “She was using _facts and logic_ to completely tear me down! Quick, distract her!”

“Uh, there’s no distraction here,” said First Aid, stepping into the room. He offered a datapad each to the captain and the Camien. “Sorry to interrupt, but I figured I’d give you a complete medical report. Everyone’s been given a dose of the antidote- some took to it _much_ faster than others- and the last of them are resting up in the medibays. Their vitals are all holding steady; Long Haul will let me know if anything changes.”

Rodimus barely glanced at his datapad before declaring its contents satisfactory. The Camien, on the other hand, lifted dazzling blue optics from her datapad to look at First Aid with an approving, almost _loving_ gaze. “If _anyone_ deserves a commendation for their behavior during this incident, it would be your medical team. You did a _wonderful_ job tending to the crew, First Aid. Both yours and mine. You have my deepest thanks.”

Thoughts of his batch proto-initiator had never produced the heat he suddenly felt behind his mouthplate. “Well, it wasn’t just me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Long Haul helped. I actually… don’t think I could have done it without him. He’s getting a lot better at operating; he’ll be a natural in no time. He deserves some thanks, too.”

“And he can have them.” The Camien gave the young medic his datapad back (was it just him, or did her fingers trail over his for just a moment too long?) at the same time as she put a hand on his shoulder. “You can have more than just thanks. On behalf of the _Vis Vitalis_, I’d like to offer you boys a _tangible reward_ for your service.”

“Hey!” Rodimus objected. “You think you can win my medic over with promises of rewards? I can do that too, you know! First Aid! In recognizing your medical prowess under dire circumstances, your captain would like to bestow upon you… _this!_” He pulled a golden badge out of his personal subspace- a Rodimus Star.

The Camien frowned. “A badge that looks like your face? And they say _I’ve_ got an ego problem,” she said. “Come on, First Aid, I’ll give you something more worth your while.”

The young medic wondered for a brief moment if she was conjunxed.

“First Aid, I swear to Primus, if you accept anything she gives you I’m _firing_ you. Take the badge.”

First Aid put his hands up in an exasperated gesture. “No need to fight over me. Can’t I just accept _both_ rewards?” He grabbed the Rodimus Star and stuck it on his chestplate. “There. I took the badge. Can I not be fired now?”

And he let the Camien steer him away from Rodimus’ grumbling.

~

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The unexpected question caught Bluestreak by surprise and caused him to commit the second accident that day. He dropped the end of the jukebox he was carrying on his foot- the same foot he had dropped it on the first time- and just barely bit back a river of swears. At the other end of the jukebox, Hoist seemed appreciative of the lack of vulgarity.

“Mirage! Hi!” said Bluestreak through gritted teeth. “Don’t creep up on us when we’re trying to move stuff, would you please?”

Mirage planted hands on hip struts and adopted a disapproving glare. “Maybe don’t try to sneak stuff into my space when I’m _still here_, how about that?”

“Right, sorry about that,” Bluestreak muttered, too busy checking the bottom of the jukebox for any damage- there was none, thank Primus.

“Answer the question. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping you spice up your bar,” Bluestreak answered.

“Being coerced into this against my will,” Hoist piped up.

Mirage had talked about wanting to open up his own bar ever since boarding the _Lost Light_. After the mass poisoning at Swerve’s, now seemed like the perfect opportunity to do so. Bluestreak and Hoist had caught him in the middle of setting the place up- tables and chairs were scattered throughout the space, and a placeholder for an eventual neon sign was stuck up against the wall behind the bar counter. Aside from that, the place had no color and little content save for the bots inside.

“One- it’s not a _bar_, it’s a _cocktail lounge_,” said Mirage. “Two- I don’t need your help ‘spicing up;’ I have Gears for that. And three- even if I let you help me, which I won’t, I wouldn’t let you bring _this_ thing in.” He pointed at the jukebox.

Hoist pinched his chin and furrowed his brow. “What if we said it was for atmosphere purposes?” he asked.

“Yeah!” agreed Bluestreak. “Every bar needs some atmosphere. In music form.”

Mirage rubbed his temples. “It. Is not. A bar. And your taste in music is _far_ from the atmosphere I want to cultivate in here.” Ignoring Bluestreak’s expression of concern for the thing, he started flipping through the catalog of music available on the jukebox. “Fleetwood Mac? Deep Purple? What even _is_ Whitesnake? Trash, that’s what.”

Gears poked his head up from behind the bar counter, where he was assembling organizing racks for the eventual drink containers that would be stored there. “Some of us actually appreciate that trash, you know,” he grumbled.

“See?” said Bluestreak. “Gears gets it.”

“I didn’t say _I_ appreciated it.”

“Well, we can’t just leave it in Swerve’s,” said Hoist, “nobody’s going to listen to it in there anymore. And my workshop hasn’t got space for it.”

“Put it in his room,” suggested Mirage, pointing at Bluestreak.

“No space there either,” said Bluestreak.

Mirage let out a very long vent. “If I let you keep it in here, will you two shut up?”

Bluestreak pumped his fist in excitement. Good fortune had befallen his jukebox yet again!

“_But_,” said Mirage, and that was where Bluestreak stopped pumping his fist. “There are two conditions. One- _I_ get to set the music selection, not you.” The blue bot’s face fell a little. “And two- you have to do me a favor first.” His shoulders slumped, and not just from the strain of carrying the jukebox so far. He wasn’t expecting to have to do something for someone else in exchange for someone else doing something for him. Even though that was usually how things went.

“What do we have to do?” asked Hoist.

“Word is, Rodimus is going to set us down on Scarvix to restock and get our bearings before we part with the _V.V_,” explained Mirage. “There’s a mechanoid-friendly district in the capital city. If you go there and pick up these things for my cocktail lounge-” he presented a datapad with a list open on it- “I’ll let you keep the jukebox in here and I’ll give you each a _free drink_ for your troubles.”

This offer prompted Gears to poke his head up again. “How come _they_ get free drinks?” the red-and-blue bot asked. “_I’m_ the one doing all the heavy lifting.”

“Did you lug this thing up a whole deck?” retorted Bluestreak, patting the jukebox. “No, you didn’t, so you can’t talk.”

“I could have, if I wanted to. I just didn’t want to.”

Mirage pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “They’re getting offered free drinks because they’re the ones going to get the stuff to make them. If you want one, you’ll have to go with them.”

“I’m in.” Gears dropped his tools immediately and moved to join Bluestreak and Hoist, an uncharacteristic grin replacing his usual frown.

“We haven’t said _we’re_ in yet,” said Hoist, “so I don’t know why you’re coming over here.”

“Well, _are_ you in?” asked Mirage.

Bluestreak crinkled his face in thought, and finally replied…

~

“Absolutely not.”

That was a cinematic trick adapted for print. Swerve wasn’t talking to Mirage. He was actually in his bar talking to Bluestreak, Hoist, and Gears. But he thought it was a terribly clever trick. He couldn’t quite recall what exactly it was called, though; maybe a fast dissolve, or a crosscut/zoom. Or something. An industry where the senior technician was called a Best Boy might have called it anything.

“First you take away the only source of entertainment I have left in here,” Swerve continued, “and now you want to take away my bouncer? Next I bet you’ll be asking to take away the keys to the whole Adaptus-cursed bar! Well, I’m putting my foot down right here, right now!” He stomped once behind the bar counter. “I’m putting _both_ of them down, actually; that’s how you know I’m serious!” He stomped again, except he did it with the same foot as before. “I am _not_ letting you take Ten out shopping for Mirage!”

Across the counter, Hoist planted hands on hip struts. “Why not?” he asked. “Ten knows more about bar stuff than any of us here.”

“I’m literally right in front of you,” said Swerve. He was about to ask why they were trying to recruit Ten instead of him when Gears cut in.

“Maybe we’d think you knew about bar stuff if you didn’t let yours get _poisoned_,” the red-and-blue bot piped up.

“Shut up, Gears. And stand up while you’re at it.”

“I’m the same height as you, you moron.”

“The point is,” Hoist interrupted, “Ten has some know-how. We don’t. He’d be a big help in finding a lot of the stuff on Mirage’s shopping list.”

“Besides, it’s not like he has anything else to do. Have you _seen_ the place?” Gears gestured with a sweeping arm to the whole of the bar. “There’s no one for your bouncer to bounce! He can afford a twenty-minute shopping trip.”

“Shut. Up,” grumbled Swerve through gritted teeth, even though he knew Gears had a point. Ever since the briefing of the incident, in which Rodimus had declared to everyone who had been released from the medibay that every drink served out of Swerve’s had been watered down and, worse, poisoned, bots had been avoiding the place like the plague. It had only been a short time, but Swerve was already tired of arranging and rearranging the glasses, polishing the tables to a painful shine, and bullying Ten off the barstools. It was a miserable existence.

What made it worse was that his change in fortunes hadn’t been addressed on-page.

“Uh, guys?” Bluestreak said, finally looking up from the datapad he had been silently fiddling with ever since arriving. “I don’t think the trip’s gonna be twenty minutes.”

“Why’s that?” asked Hoist.

“No particular reason; it’s just that, well… Mirage’s shopping list is actually something like _fifteen files long_.”

“What.”

The blue bot’s eyebrows crinkled in embarrassment. “Can anyone here read Scarvixian? Half of the stuff on here is written in Scarvixian.”

“**t e n ,**” said Ten, as if belatedly realizing that everyone in the bar had been talking about him. He lumbered over to stand above the huddle that had formed around Bluestreak, his huge golden frame casting a shadow over them. It almost looked like he was trying to help them figure out what was written on the shopping list. Swerve found this very funny; he knew Ten couldn’t read. Or at least, as far as he was aware, and as far as the story had addressed, Ten couldn’t read.

“I think this one says something about… sediment?” said Bluestreak uncertainly, pointing at a word.

Hoist peered closer at the datapad and pinched his chin. “No, I think it looks more like… oh wow. I think that looks like something _incredibly rude_.”

“But it’s only three letters,” the blue bot protested. “You need at least _four_ for maximum rudeness.”

“You’d be surprised what other planets’ alphabets can manage,” Gears said from below the datapad.

“**t e n .**”

Gears reached up to swipe the datapad from Bluestreak. “Gimme that.” He stuck his nose in it and made a face. “Hold on… this says ‘_red_.’ In _Cybertronian_.”

“There’s no way,” Hoist said. “That’s _not_ Cybertronian script.”

“Well, it ain’t Scarvixian. Trust me, I know; years of interstellar cargo hauling will teach you to read other planets’ alphabets.” Gears examined the datapad’s contents for another few moments, his expression growing angrier and more bewildered by the second. “_None_ of this is in Scarvixian, you nitwits! This is all Cybertronian! Mirage just has Primus-awful penmanship!”

It took everything in Swerve’s power to not burst out laughing then and there. He bit down on one of his left-hand knuckles; he thought he tasted rust. Mirage couldn’t have picked a more unqualified bunch to go run his errands, if they had this much trouble reading a simple shopping list. “You know what?” he said around the knuckle still between his teeth. “I think I _will_ loan Ten out to you lot, if only so he can tell me how badly you screwed the trip up when he gets back. He takes two drams of low-grade every three hours. Don’t let him near anything flaky or gritty, it seizes up his joints. And I expect to see at least one new _offensive word_ painted on him. Other than that, I don’t care. Go wild.”

“**t e n ,**” said Ten sadly, trying to gaze over his shoulder at the phrase “I Failed the Ambus Test” Inferno had painted on his back some time previously.

“Off the furniture, boy,” commanded Swerve.

Ten got off the table.

“I’ll go, too,” said a new voice. Everyone’s head whipped around to the corner the voice had come from to find Mixmaster crawling out of a booth and stuffing his thick datapad into his personal subspace. Swerve thought that the mixing truck’s sudden appearance was incredibly contrived.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who thought so. “How did we not see you before?” asked Bluestreak, his brow furrowing in frustration this time.

“I was invisible?” Mixmaster offered.

“No you weren’t.”

“You’re right. Maybe you just weren’t paying attention.” Mixmaster shrugged. “Anyway, can I come with you guys? Prowl says I’m ‘_too introverted_’ and that I need to ‘_get out more_.’” He made air quotes.

“I don’t think that’s how air quotes work,” Swerve said.

“‘_Pretty sure it is_.’”

~

First Aid had never been aboard the _Vis Vitalis_, or indeed, any luxury-class starship. For that was what it was- it felt more like a luxury first, starship second. Even the visible fuel conduits lining the corridor baseboards seemed top-of-the-line. Either Thunderclash wanted only the best living conditions for his crew, or his crew wanted only the best living conditions for him. In a way, it made First Aid sad; Thunderclash would likely not be around to enjoy such fine conditions for much longer.

The red Camien led the young medic to the medibay, and he had to stop himself from whistling. The room was _huge_, as big as Delphi’s main ward, kitted out with some of the highest-quality equipment he had ever seen. He stopped being impressed as he made to survey the medical berths. There were quite a lot of them, but only one was currently occupied.

“Oh, _Thunderclash_,” First Aid said quietly.

If it hadn’t been for the readout screen showing weak vital signs, he might have thought that the greatest Autobot who ever lived was dead. Thunderclash’s once lusty plating of red, white, and teal had succumbed to a significant amount of aggressive depigmentation. His joints were worn from disuse. And he barely stirred as the two medics present fussed over him. (Granted, it was good for patients not to stir when being attended to, but normal patients didn’t abstain from movement to this degree.)

“What happened?” he asked, approaching the berth but giving the medics room to operate.

The Camien sighed. “He tried to fend off some _personality ticks_ from our new recruits during a pit stop on Marasma. The ticks didn’t get anyone, thank Primus, but he ventured a little too far away from the _V.V_ and his spark started to contract.”

“We’re doing everything we can to get him back to operable status,” one of the medics added, “but if his systems decide to bounce back it’s going to take a lot of time.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked First Aid.

“Unless you have a device that can instantaneously restore a spark’s energy levels, I’m afraid not,” the other medic replied, gently affixing a fresh conduit warmer to Thunderclash’s chestplate.

First Aid wanted to say that he might not have had such a device, but he had an extra pair of hands, and that was better than nothing, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. “He’ll be okay,” soothed the red Camien. “Buildup and Remedy have been working on him for a _long_ time; they know what they’re doing.” She steered him away from the berth, though he cast one last sad glance at Thunderclash before he disappeared from view.

They came to a wall full of cabinets, each one marked to contain a different medical supply- electronic bandages, disinfectant, conduit clamps. A teal bot rummaged through the bottom cabinets; a datapad with a list on it was by her feet.

“Oh, _Velocity!_” called the red Camien.

“Oof!” oof’ed the teal bot- Velocity- banging her head on the cabinet roof. She straightened up and flashed the red Camien an embarrassed grin. Her spectacles had been knocked askew; she straightened them. “_Firestar!_ Hi! What, uh, what’s up? Is something wrong?”

Firestar gently pushed First Aid forward. “No, nothing’s wrong,” she said. “This is First Aid. He’s a medical officer aboard the _Lost Light_.”

Velocity lost all trace of embarrassment. “Oh, _wow!_” she exclaimed. “Hi, I’m Velocity! But… you already knew that. Um. Hi. Again.” She made as if to give First Aid a hug but stopped halfway through the motion and settled for offering a handshake. First Aid shook.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

“Velocity, First Aid would like to offer you a _job_,” said Firestar.

Velocity brightened up even more; she practically squealed. “_Really?!_”

“Really?” echoed First Aid, turning a confused eyebrow to Firestar.

The red Camien smiled. “This is the reward I mentioned. Ever since passing her medical exams, poor Velocity’s been relegated to stocking duty. She’s desperate to get some real hands-on experience. If you take her with you, she’ll be able to give you more of a hand in the event something like the poisoning happens again.”

“I’m really good at it, I promise!”

First Aid decided to put that claim to the test. “What were you looking for,” he asked, “and what does it do?”

“Cryogenic sprayer cartridges!” Velocity answered without hesitation. “The sprayers are used to cool down internal energon enough to temporarily congeal, stopping the flow and allowing for safe repair of internal energon conduits without leaking!”

First Aid nodded. “But you have to be careful with cryogenic sprayers because…?” he prompted.

“Because applying a low temperature to an internal energon conduit for too long will make it _brittle_ and damage it further!” the teal medic recited, the wheels on her shoulders spinning excitedly.

“Very good,” the young medic said, prompting another beaming smile from Velocity. To Firestar, he said, “For certain, it’s a lovely offer, but I’m worried about getting it cleared.”

“I’m in charge while Thunderclash is… _indisposed_, if that helps any,” offered Firestar, planting a hand on her hip strut.

“No, I mean with my ship’s chief medical officer,” clarified First Aid. “He’d have to approve the addition of a new member of medical staff first.”

Velocity frowned. “But I thought _you_ were the chief medical officer?”

First Aid shook his head. “No, no, I’m the chief medical officer in _training_. I’ll get there… one day. But if you give me a few, I can go ask Ratchet for approval, and if he says yes, I’d be happy to take you aboard.”

Velocity actually squealed this time. Firestar patted First Aid approvingly on the shoulder; he fought to hide the heat rising behind his mouthplate again. “Of course,” the red Camien said. “Take all the time you need. Within two hours. Because that’s how long your captain is willing to wait before we part ways.”

~

For the capital city of an entire planet, Fortuna was not that impressive. An architect like Grapple might have found the incorporation of dwellings within the planet’s natural rock pillar formations interesting, but Gears was no architect. And it wasn’t like he could observe them closely anyway; he was too busy guiding Ten away from the tiny sand geysers that popped up every now and then. They were easy to spot from his vantage point atop the Legislator’s shoulder.

“On your left,” he said, pointing to a small sinkhole forming in the sand. Ten stepped right, avoiding the cloud of dust and detritus that appeared soon after with a small _pop_.

“**t e n ,**” said Ten, as if he was thanking Gears.

“On your right.”

_Pop_.

“**t e n .**”

“So what I don’t understand,” Mixmaster said from below them, “is why did the _V.V_ feel the need to host a funeral party _before_ Thunderclash died? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s literally in the name,” replied Bluestreak. “_Pre_-wake. Having a pre-wake post-funeral wouldn’t make any sense either.”

“But wait… by that logic, wouldn’t a post-funeral party be called a _post_-wake?”

“No, that would just make it a regular old wake.”

“That’s weird. Why would the pre-wake be the only one to get a prefix?”

“Pit if I know.”

“And anyway, it’s not the uneven distribution of prefixes I’m concerned about. It’s this- why would the _V.V_ feel the need to throw a funeral party, pre or post, when the guy isn’t even _dead_ yet? When he might not even die? Me personally, I’d find that a bit disrespectful. ‘Woo-hoo, you’re _dying!_ Let’s celebrate while you watch your spark _burn out!_’”

“Are you usually this much of a chatterbox?”

“I’m trying to be more _amiable_; I’ve read that trying to start conversations helps. Is it helping?”

“It’s helping me want to _punch your mouthplate in_.”

“Can you guys hush up for thirty seconds, please?” asked Hoist from the front of the pack. “You’re making it hard for me to focus on the map.”

“Sorry,” said Mixmaster, his shoulders shrinking in slight embarrassment.

A short period of silence followed, punctuated only by the _pop_ping of sand geysers and Ten’s sounds of gratitude. As much as Gears disliked Swerve and his lot, he found guiding Ten around to be an oddly relaxing experience. It helped that the Legislator lacked the vocabulary ability to make jokes about his height. Down below, Hoist alternated his gaze between the map and their surroundings; Bluestreak had some of his music going in his audials, judging by the strangely funky way he was walking now; and Mixmaster scrolled through the numerous files that made up Mirage’s shopping list. (Gears had helpfully translated Mirage’s terrible penmanship into something more readable.)

“How much longer until we get to the mechanoid district?” asked Mixmaster.

“That was _twenty_ seconds. I counted,” said Bluestreak.

Hoist shushed them again. “If I led us right, we _should_ be just about…”

“_Here_,” said Gears, an odd feeling creeping into his voice. The others looked up, and he could tell that the odd feeling was creeping into their heads, too.

For they _were_ here. Judging by the Cybertronian script mingled with the Scarvixian across the various signs and posts, and the presence of decrepit Functionist totems not present in the rest of the city, there was little doubt that this was the mechanoid-friendly district. But the change in scenery was unexpectedly quick, as if one second they had been strolling through the brightly-colored streets of Fortuna, and the next they had been transmatted somewhere a lot more dulled in color. It was still recognizable as part of the city- the style of architecture was the same, just inflated for larger life forms- but there was a strange new uniformity about it.

The whole place seemed at once new and ancient, orderly and disorganized, meticulously tended and horribly disused. And not a single other soul appeared to populate the district.

It gave Gears the _creeps_.

“Gears, come on down and read me some signs,” Hoist requested.

As he clambered down Ten’s back, the red-and-blue bot saw a brief flash of Fortuna proper’s shades of yellows and oranges and tans, before everything went back to grayish as he hit the ground.

“Whoa,” whoa’ed Mixmaster. “You changed colors for a second. You got… _brighter_.”

Gears looked at his hands; their blue plating had become dulled, just like… everyone else’s, since they had stumbled across the mechanoid district. “The _whole world_ got brighter for a second. Just beyond… here.” He stuck his arm out to about the distance he had been when he had seen the colors change, but nothing happened. His arm remained a grayed blue.

Mixmaster took a single step beyond Gears’ fingertips, and suddenly his plating resumed its normal bright green and purple. He stood out against the gray that had somehow creeped to the rest of Fortuna that lay behind them. “Hey! Now _I_ got brighter!” the mixing truck exclaimed. “And so has everything else!”

Everything else still looked dull to Gears. “How come you get _your_ colors back, but my arm doesn’t?” he complained.

“**t e n ,**” supplied Ten unhelpfully.

Hoist sighed. “Come on, you guys. We only have two hours before we’re scheduled to take off again,” he said. “We don’t have time to worry about colors. We _should_ be worrying about what Mirage is going to say if we don’t get all of his stuff.”

Mixmaster retreated back into the group, his plating dulling again. Gears was no doctor, but the faded look of everyone and everything reminded him eerily of aggressive depigmentation.

~

A tingling bloomed in Mixmaster’s frame that wasn’t just the gestalt bond’s response to component distance.

The air seemed to get thicker the further into the district they advanced; thicker with what, no one could tell. As Gears led them to find a place that could provide engex and other fuel, muttering out what the signs said, Mixmaster took to observing the rest of the environment. Turning his optics upward, he noticed that without variation the district’s buildings were only two heights, the first not that much taller than the second. It was a far cry from the various heights present in the other cities he had visited.

He suddenly received a ping in his personal radio; glancing down, he found that he had received a request to pick up several canisters of something while he was out. His attention soon drifted away from this request when he noticed that the ground was now perfectly tiled in _pentagons_.

His optics started hurting.

~

That was an arms store.

That was something that looked suspiciously like a Relinquishment Clinic.

That was a building for services that had been four million years out of operation.

And all the lights were off.

Gears had been walking for what felt like a while, and so far he had come across none of the bare essentials robotic beings needed for proper upkeep, at _least_. Thought that could have been due to the fact that so far the group had only been walking down just the one street. He didn’t think that the district was that big, but he still didn’t want to have to scour every nook and cranny of it for just one place.

“Where in the Pit is that engex depot?” he mumbled.

As if in response to his vocalized wishing, soon after he spotted a light across the street, bright and crystal-clear magenta against the muddled gray of the district. A light that belonged to a sign written in jumbled Cybertronian and Scarvixian script. And below it, a set of eight lit windows. It was an honest-to-Primus engex depot.

Its sudden convenient appearance should probably have unnerved him (and Swerve would probably have commented on its sheer unlikelihood), but in that moment he didn’t care. The sooner they got Mirage’s haul from it, the sooner they could leave this creepy place.

“I found one!” he said, pointing. “Right there!”

“_What?_” Hoist asked; he sounded kind of far away. “Come back here and say that.”

“How’d you get so _far ahead?_” asked Bluestreak, also sounding kind of far away. “Your running speed is the same as _our_ walking speed!”

“**t e n .**”

“Shut the frag up,” Gears was about to say, but the words died in his throat as he turned around. He was a good several buildings in front of the rest of them. Bluestreak’s question was a good one- how _did_ he get so far ahead? Had he simply ignored his pace in his anxiety and rushed it a bit? He strolled back to rejoin the others, feeling a little bit of a lurch in his fuel tank as he did. “I found an engex depot across the street,” he reported, jerking his thumb in its direction. “It’s just about the only place in this dump with the lights on.”

The only response he got was scared looks from Bluestreak and Mixmaster. He thought they’d be more pleased with some good news. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I know this place is creepy, but come _on_. You can’t be _that_ spineless; we’ve faced a _lot worse_ on this trip.”

“You want to tell him, or should I?” Bluestreak asked Hoist.

Gears planted hands on hip struts. “Tell me what?”

“You tell him,” said the green towbot.

Bluestreak’s voice took on an uncharacteristic shake. “Okay, one- we were literally _just_ talking about how there didn’t seem to be an open engex depot around. And in this place, for one to just manifest right as we mentioned it is… _highly suspect_. And two… you _skipped_. Like, a lot.”

“What? No I didn’t. I don’t skip, I’m not happy enough for that.”

Hoist pinched his chin, but Gears noticed that he was only doing it to hide his hand quivering a little. “Maybe there’s something like that phobia shield I encountered way back when? Only instead of manifesting what you _don’t_ want, it manifests what you _do_.”

“But we wanted an engex depot since we first walked in here,” Bluestreak protested. “Why would it wait until we started talking about it to manifest?”

“Isn’t a phobia shield just a projection, anyhow?” asked Mixmaster. “How do we know that it’s even an actual physical thing?”

“No, no. Phobia shields do project physically,” explained Hoist.

“**t e n ,**” said Ten, shuffling his feet and looking as nervous as a bot with no optics could.

“Would someone _please_ explain what you meant by me skipping?” Gears demanded.

Mixmaster started gesticulating as he explained. “It was like… you were walking toward us, but then… a part of your walk cycle got cut out. You went from here-” the mixing truck held up a hand to indicate point A- “to here-” he held up his other hand for point B- “without actually traveling between them. Or you _did_, but you didn’t _walk_ between them.”

“You’re making less sense than usual.”

“I know! I’m _scared!_ I can’t sound smart when I’m scared!”

“I couldn’t have just skipped part of my walk; I’d have noticed if I had.”

Hoist pointed in the direction Gears had come from. “Walk back that way and we’ll see if it happens again,” the green towbot instructed.

Gears tossed his hands in slight exasperation, but he did as he was told. He only got a few steps before he felt another lurch in his fuel tank and heard shouts from the others. “You did it again!” Mixmaster yelled. But he _hadn’t_. He had seen his feet move one in front of the other the whole time. A smooth transition from one alleyway to the next, right in front of the building. What was going on?

“Hang on, let me see this,” said Bluestreak, getting over his quaking knees enough to begin slowly walking toward Gears. His mouth moved as he silently counted his steps to himself…

And then Gears understood what Mixmaster had meant.

“Did you feel it too?” he asked. Bluestreak nodded. Gears connected the dots between the lurch and the supposed skip. “But you saw the building pass entirely on your side, right?” Another nod. “How many steps did you take?”

“Uh… eight?”

That wasn’t that many steps. Gears walked a little further down the street, in front of the next building, counting his steps. One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… _lurch_. And he found himself at the entrance to the next alleyway.

“Guys?” he called back. “I think whatever’s going on around here is making it so that we cross the buildings in only eight steps!”

“I think I heard Nautica mention something like this,” said Mixmaster. “I think she called it a _quantum perception filter?_ It warps things around so that you only experience them a certain way. Like a certain number of steps.”

“I don’t care _what_ it’s called,” said Bluestreak, “_I’m_ calling it scary. I want to go back. No jukebox is worth this much creepiness.”

“**t e n .**”

If he were tall enough, Gears would have slapped Bluestreak in the face. “But we’ve come this far,” the red-and-blue bot said crossly. “We’re literally almost across the street from it. I’m scared too, but I didn’t give up assembling holding racks for Mirage just to have to go right back to it. _I want those free drinks_. And I know you’re doing this for something you want, too. You can’t lie to me. See this thing through for your stupid jukebox.”

“… Fine. But if I’m doing this, I’m doing it quickly.” Bluestreak sighed. “Talk about our skewed priorities, though, huh?”

“Maybe yours are,” retorted Gears, “but mine are of high quality.”

He waved everyone over to regroup, which they did one at a time. If it was slightly disorienting feeling the skip, it was even more disorienting to watch it en masse. Somehow, Ten skipped the least in his walking; maybe it was because of his longer legs. Despite having little capacity for expression, the big guy seemed to be the most frightened out of all of them. It was clear that his existence spent in Swerve’s had not prepared him for a place like this.

“Come on, let me up,” Gears said. Ten crouched down, his knee providing a step for the red-and-blue bot to push himself up on in order to clamber up onto his shoulders. “We’re almost done, big guy. You can go back to your slag-hole real soon.”

“**t e n .**”

Gears didn’t know it because he wasn’t walking, but no matter their height, every bot only took five steps to cross the street. And the street wasn’t even that narrow.

~

The engex depot was abandoned, just like the apparent whole of the district. The inside was cramped with surprisingly pristine shelves, each one chock-full of product, but the fluorescent lights overhead did nothing to pierce the gray of outside, making it look dimmer than it was. A strange soft buzzing came from the counter, upon which laid a datapad containing a scrawled note- “_Leave your money on the counter. -- D_”

With Hoist standing by the door to keep lookout, Mixmaster, Bluestreak, Gears, and Ten were left with the shopping list. “What does _Sistexican soda_ look like?” the mixing truck asked Ten.

The Legislator wandered through one of the aisles a bit before pointing at a cluster of brightly colored canisters. “**t e n .**” Sure enough, the labels on the sides of each canister all denoted the drink in question beneath whatever different logos they were adorned with.

“Okay, Mirage wants two large packs of each available flavor of the Pasha brand,” reported Mixmaster. Five flavors were available, and eight-packs were the only size present; he scooped up as many as he could and shuffled them under one arm. “And what does… _lithium alloy special_ look like?”

Ten quickly pointed to a spot high above the Sistexican soda. “**t e n .**”

“He needs ten bottles of that.” Being the only one tall enough to reach, Ten grabbed the bottles, five in each massive hand.

“For a bot with no optics, you sure do have some good eyesight,” cracked Gears, still perched on Ten’s shoulders. Ten appeared bashful at the comment. “Like I told you, we’ll be done in no time.”

“I sure hope so,” Bluestreak complained, readjusting his grip on the forty-gallon cask of engex. “This thing’s going to pull my arms out of their sockets. Hey, big guy, you wanna trade?”

“**t e n .**”

Gears grunted. “Oi, leave the complaining to _me_. That’s _my_ personality trait.”

Mixmaster furrowed his brow as he scrolled further down the list. “Unprocessed liquid energon…” he muttered. The requested item sent a jolt of memory to his brain module. “Hey! Before I forget,” he began, and he asked the room what the canisters he had been messaged to pick up looked like.

“They’re about the same height as regular canisters, but they’ve got a window in the side and a _green_ lid,” said Hoist from the door.

“Can you find those?” Mixmaster asked Ten.

Ten led the group to another aisle and pointed. There they were, conveniently located next to the unprocessed liquid energon. “Thanks!” the mixing truck exclaimed, scooping several of the canisters into his mixing drum. “Okay, unprocessed liquid energon… he needs _seventy pints_ of… wait a second… something’s _weird_.”

Bluestreak groaned. “You know what? That’s _enough_ out of you. This was supposed to be a normal shopping trip, but everything you’ve said since we got here-” he set the cask down and pointed an accusatory finger at Mixmaster- “has only resulted in _more weirdness_. And I think I’m all out of patience for it. So what you say next better be as _un_-weird as possible.”

The mixing truck quailed a little. “I was just going to say that there are only two canister sizes here. Five pint and eight pint.”

The blue bot relaxed. “Oh. Huh. That’s not weird, that’s just oddly _specific_.”

“It would be just oddly specific, if it weren’t for the buildings.”

“The _what?_”

Mixmaster pointed out one of the eight windows to the rooftops opposite them. “The buildings are all _five stories_ and _eight stories_ tall. No other height. Just like the canisters have no other sizes.”

“And you didn’t think to tell any of us this?”

“You _just said_ you didn’t want any more weirdness!”

“That was _before_ I knew that five and eight were significant numbers! Are there any _other_ fives and eights you haven’t told us about?”

Mixmaster pinched his chin and furrowed his brow. “_Eight_ windows… _five_ flavors of soda in eight-packs…” A note of worry crept into his voice and only grew more obvious with every following example. “Ten bottles of lithium alloy special… _five_ times two. All the canisters on this shelf are _five_ pint and _eight_ pint… I think this _whole engex depot_ is full of fives and eights.”

“Not true! Then what about the cask?” demanded Bluestreak, slapping the top of the item in question. “It’s forty gallons! No fives or eights in there!... _Right?_”

…

“_Forty is five times eight._”

Hoist had to clamp a shaky hand over his best friend’s mouth to keep his screams muffled.

~

As they hurried out of the district with what little haul they had managed, nobody noticed the engex depot’s lights shut off on their own, or the eight functionist totems rotate each of their five faces to watch them leave.

~

_I’m proud of you._

_I don’t say it as much as you need me to, but it’s true._

_You handled yourself like a champ taking care of everyone who was poisoned. You were calm, precise, and careful, and you even got that big green lunkhead of yours to act the same. Calm, precision, and care are the things good medics are made of, and you’ve got them all in spades. And a good head on your shoulders to boot._

_This has been long overdue for the both of us, but it’s finally time for me to put this to a start._

_I’m going to be away for a bit, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’m leaving you the title, the medibay and everything in it, and the power to make the judgment calls you should have been making a long time ago._

_This radio’s keyed to my frequency. Should the new chief medical officer need to speak to me, don’t hesitate._

_\-- Ratchet_

“And he just… _left_ after that?”

Long Haul nodded, rubbing his hands with disinfectant. “Didn’t say where he was going. He just told me to make sure you saw it, and that I didn’t touch it.”

First Aid set the letter down next to the radio it had been found under. A wave of conflicting emotions rolled through his brain module, fighting for dominance. Certainly, he was pleased that Ratchet had finally fulfilled his promise, but he was also very sad at his departure. Even though it hadn’t been that long, it felt like he had just lost a protoform-hood friend. Also gnawing at him was the usual sense of trepidation that he wouldn’t be able to live up to Ratchet’s legacy.

“You okay?” Long Haul asked.

“Yeah…” the young medic almost whispered. “Yeah, I think I am.”

_He was the chief medical officer._ Somehow it didn’t feel right. But what felt less right was the fact that the _Lost Light_ was now down one of its medical staff.

It was time to make his first judgment call.

First Aid tapped his personal radio. “Firestar? The chief medical officer would be _delighted_ to take Velocity aboard.”

~

Hoist tiredly placed the last bottle of triple-distilled engex in the rack under the bar counter. “And that’s all we were able to get before we had a collective freak-out. Sorry it wasn’t more.”

Mirage sighed in disappointment. “This isn’t nearly enough for a grand opening, you know. I’d be shut down in _days_ from all the quantity complaints.” He paused. “But… you _did_ get at least some of the stuff I asked for, and you _are_ clearly upset. So, even though I don’t believe you about what happened… you guys can keep the jukebox here, and you can still have a free drink. I can work with this for now.”

Gears raised his hand from where he sat on the floor. “I’ll take a Cute Bruiser. _Four_ of ‘em, if you can.”

“An Everyman for me,” requested Hoist. He didn’t want to drink his usual Sistexican soda for a good long while.

After watching Mirage deftly mix the admittedly basic drink- nothing more than plain engex with a hint of cadmium flake added- Hoist carried it, and a Stepford Smiler complete with umbrella, over to where Bluestreak had been wordlessly slumped on top of the empty cask ever since takeoff. He offered the other drink to his friend; the blue bot accepted, and the pair sipped their drinks in silence.

“Sorry I kind of forced you along when you didn’t want to,” the green towbot said after a while.

Bluestreak shrugged. “It wasn’t really your fault. Gears was more the one who forced me to continue. Still… it’s a little funny that the roles were finally reversed. You and yours were stringing _me_ along.”

“How’s it feel?” Hoist joked.

“Like I don’t ever want to see math again.”

They lapsed into silence again, broken only by the sound of Gears’ straw slurping up the air at the bottom of his glass. “You don’t have to pretend to not be scared so much next time, though. You’re a _media lover_, not an _action hero_.”

Bluestreak swirled the last of his drink around in his glass. “Talk about _me_ faking not being scared? I saw you trying to keep your hands from shaking. Your arms were so tense.” He grinned.

“Maybe. At least I did a better job hiding it than _you_, mister knock-knees. You failed, and you failed _hard_.”

The pair laughed, and Bluestreak gently bopped Hoist on the bicep strut.

“You going to be okay?” the green towbot asked.

“Are you?” the blue bot replied.

“Eventually.”

“Same. It was just weirdly specific, weirdly omnipresent math anyway.”

“Not as bad as the sparkeater.”

They were quiet again. But the friendly kind of quiet.

And in the corner, Gears chugged his drinks to the sound of The Chain. Fleetwood Mac. 1977.

~

“Hey,” said Mixmaster, pulling off his mixing drum and opening it to reveal the canisters he had picked up. “I got the stuff you wanted…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, i'm going to have to change my schedule. new chapters will now be released every month due to a combination of having to focus more on life stuff, having to fill upcoming chapters with so much more content, and having to regain my writing momentum.  
the mini-arc of what happened to the constructicons is finally completed, and prowl takes another step in his own arc of standing up for his gestalt. it was a real treat making brainstorm explain his processes and thoughts about what he did that night at swerve's, and it was likewise oddly satisfying writing prowl returning a bit to his blackmailing roots. keeping him confined to this one section was a conscious choice.  
first aid's interactions with firestar were largely born out of a joke between me and my friend about firestar having big milf energy. his scene where he tests velocity's medical tool knowledge, and his first act as chief medical officer, were very satisfying to write. our good boy is stepping up and becoming a good man.  
i'm glad i was able to finally give mixmaster some spotlight and flesh out his "attempted smart guy" personality in the scenes he was in, as well as address swerve's fourth wall acknowledgement and bluestreak's continued disdain for the constructicons. many different inspirations were drawn from for the errand gang's shopping trip- m c escher for weird geometry, lovecraft for minor cosmic horror, and guardians of the galaxy for friendly team banter.  
up next: another interlude


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTERLUDE: In which some bad guys have some bad thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, folks. Welcome back, I guess. Look, I'm not gonna lie- things have _sucked_, and I'm tired, so don't expect the usual spiel from me.
> 
> "Why have things sucked? Well, for one, my arm feels like it's on the verge of giving out. And no matter how many times I go visit First Aid, he insists that there's nothing wrong with me. If there's nothing wrong with me, then why do my shoulder gears grind every time I lift my arm above chest level? Answer me that, new chief medical officer!
> 
> "To make a long recap short, it turned out Brainstorm was the one who poisoned the Constructicons way back in chapter... three? Five? I don't know, it was a multi-chapter event. Anyway, Brainstorm did it, and Prowl called him out with his usual methods.
> 
> "By which I mean blackmail.
> 
> "Why do you like this guy again?
> 
> "While that was going on, First Aid got himself a new crush, a new assistant, and a new job- a new job which, if I hadn't implied strongly enough already, I don't think he's cut out for. But Ratchet seemed to think he was, and Ratchet's word is basically medibay law, so whoop-de-do, I guess.
> 
> "Yeah, I'm grumpy. I get grumpy when I'm tired. Or in pain. Or suspiciously slightly more drunk that usual in an attempt to block out the tiredness and/or pain. Yes, I'm aware of how specific that was.
> 
> "And while _that_ was going on- I know, how many subplots can one chapter have?- Bluestreak, Hoist, and Gears basically kidnapped Ten and Mixmaster from my poor, poor, business-less bar to go on a booze run for Mirage. A very creepy booze run, might I add, what with the omnipresent math, pentagon tiles, and old functionist totems that I'm pretty sure were watching them the whole time. I don't know why they were watching them; what do you think? Theorize away!
> 
> "So yeah, that's the short and short of it. Not my best work, but I already gave you my excuse.
> 
> "You know, I'm actually really glad you stopped by. Ever since Mirage opened up his place, company around here's been almost nonexistent. It sucks not having anyone to shoot the slag with, y'know? I'm sorry I got snappy with you; that was a bad on me.
> 
> "Here, have an apology, on the house."

_Luna 1. A while ago._

The mechs of the Cincinno Argentum sect did not suffer defeat gladly.

And Star Saber _was_ suffering.

Having narrowly escaped from a humiliating defeat by that purple demon, Star Saber had emerged with a bleeding optic and a slightly wavering spark close by Luna 1’s planetary engines. The same place where his master, Tyrest, emerged shortly after. That was how the recall triggers worked- when activated, the holder of one would always arrive close to the holder of another. Star Saber had taken his grievously wounded master underground, to one of the engines’ fuel stores, and they had remained there ever since. He dared not return to the surface, for they were both weak and the heretics had seized, crucified what had once been their own domain.

Every day, Star Saber siphoned off a portion of energon from the fuel stores and fed it to Tyrest, slowly trying to replenish what he had lost from Minimus Ambus’ attack. And every day, he comforted Tyrest’s mumbling, repeating anguish as best he could.

“I _failed_. Primus instructed me to atone for my sins and I _failed_.”

“You have not failed. You still function; there will be _another chance_ to redeem yourself.”

“Primus hates me.”

“Primus does _not_ hate you.”

Every day.

For so long.

As much as Star Saber loved serving Tyrest, or indeed, serving a master in general, he could not help but feel as if he was going against his teachings. The Cincinno Argentum, influenced by Nova Prime’s own calling, prized actively spreading peace and enlightenment through conquest and a firm hand, as warrior god Primus did in ages past against his opposite. They were called to attack in the name of the light…

The pacifistic wretch Dai Atlas had _refused_ that call. Atlas had instead languished in his faraway corner, refusing to outstretch his arm to space and spread Primus’ gospel. He had looked blindly on and said he saw the way, and in doing so Primus had declared that his spark was to be returned to Vector Sigma, that he might change his course when he emerged from the next pulsewave.

Star Saber was no Dai Atlas. He prided himself on his proactivity in seeking to do the will of the Guiding Hand, a will that joining in Tyrest’s crusade allowed him to more closely pursue. To him there was no higher calling than humbling oneself and submitting to a higher one’s will. In serving an earthly master, one who had Primus’ goals in mind, he served his heavenly master and acted against the wrongs he felt he was being called to right. He relished in the thought of showing those who did not believe, who did not have the warrior’s light in their sparks, the error of their ways.

He had failed in his calling, of course- he and Tyrest both. Yet Primus had sought fit to give them a second chance in allowing them to carry on living. And what were they doing with that chance? What was _he_ doing? Sniveling with his tail between his legs, like Dai Atlas, like the Circle of Light apostates who had refused his summons to join Tyrest’s holy mission.

Tending to Tyrest was serving a master, but Star Saber chafed at the thought of Primus’ will being left undone.

“Primus hates me,” mumbled Tyrest, still staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Primus does _not_ hate you,” assured Star Saber. _He hates our inaction_, but he did not say this.

There would be a time when they were well enough to emerge again, but not right away. Not right away.

Time continued to pass. The pair of them languished beneath the surface, with Tyrest managing to hold onto life and Star Saber holding onto the sad courage that Primus would send something to help them along their way much faster. It almost ran out on him, and he almost considered returning himself to Vector Sigma at several points. Thoughts of Lockdown and the others who had been with them crossed his mind every now and again.

An energon feed line stuck into Tyrest’s arm. The fuel store punctured just enough to accept the other end of the feed line. A slow trickle of energon sent into the Chief Justice’s body- not too fast, else the filtering systems would overload and hurt him more. The same routine they had been going through for… he had forgotten. The days had moved faster than he could see.

“I _failed_. Primus instructed me to atone for my sins and I _failed_.” The voice was weaker now, edged with static.

This time Star Saber said nothing. He looked upon his master’s damaged form and felt a profound pity, pity for the once mighty mech who had offered him a purpose beyond rudderless killing in Primus’ name, pity for the brain module that refused to improve, that refused to produce any thoughts other than “Primus hates me.”

Tyrest noticed the silence. “Star Saber…?”

Again, Star Saber was silent.

“_Star Saber?_” And there was a note of anguish in Tyrest’s voice now. “Are you still there?”

He took his master’s groping hand and squeezed gently, silently reminding him that he would not leave.

But Tyrest had not improved. It was clear that he was still too close to the edge of death, and that their routine had only prolonged his suffering. It killed Star Saber to think this, but perhaps it was time to grant his master mercy and return him to Vector Sigma. Perhaps the next pulsewave would be kinder to him.

“Primus does _not_ hate you,” said Star Saber, reaching for the handle of his Great Sword.

And then the portal opened.

It filled the wall opposite from the fuel stores; Star Saber shielded his optics against the clear mana of its white light. Out from its center emerged a silhouette, a spindly figure who appeared to be attached to something beyond by way of several thick cables affixed to its back. The other details were lost in the glow and the hum of energy, but the figure’s voice managed to cut through, crystal clear.

“_Luna 1. Finally. Took me long enough._”

Star Saber drew his Great Sword, but he did not point it at Tyrest. “Speak,” he commanded. “Identify yourself, and your purpose.”

The figure seemed to bow. “_As you wish. I’m called the Grand Architect, the king of nothing, and I’ve been looking for this place for a very long time._”

“Why? What could you possibly want from this castoff moon?”

“_There’s a reason Luna 1 was called the miracle moon. I’m performing an… experiment, you see. But the creators need their moon back if they’re going to let me keep performing it. And I need a few miracles to help me make the progress they seek._”

The Architect’s words caught Star Saber off guard. “The creators? You come from the _Guiding Hand?_” he asked.

“_I do come from the five, yes,_” confirmed the Architect. “_From them, and their halls._”

Star Saber lowered his sword; at the same time he felt his spark lift. “What mission have they given you?” The question that lingered unasked was, _And what mission can they give me?_

The Architect extended a hand, and away from the light of the portal the offered white forearm and blue hand looked strangely familiar. “_Would you like to find out?_”

Star Saber was about to take the hand, but his reach turned into a halting gesture as a pained moan prompted his thoughts of Tyrest to recover from their temporary stall. Returning to his master’s berthside, he grasped the hand again. “What’s happening?” asked Tyrest weakly.

“Chief Justice,” reported Star Saber, “we have a visitor. The Grand Architect. He says he comes from the Guiding Hand, from _Cyberutopia_. He says he has been given a mission, and I think he is willing to give us one too. I think… I think Primus is offering us another chance.”

Tyrest seemed to smile. “You take it, then. I fear I might be all out of chances,” he wheezed.

The grip strengthened. “I will _not_ leave,” said Star Saber, “and I will _not_ let you fail.” Turning his face to the silhouette of the Architect, he said, “My master, he too had a mission from the Guiding Hand. One we both fear he may not live to see through. Will you help him?”

“_Of course. Just come closer…_”

The removal of the feed line caused Tyrest to give out a small cry of pain. Star Saber did his best not to agitate the wound in his master’s side as he hoisted him into his arms. The Chief Justice’s frame was starting to feel cold. But if what the Architect spoke was true, then Tyrest would be warm and healed, and they could return to their atonement of their sins with the aplomb they had once had.

The Architect vanished back into the portal, but the voice still lingered. “_Come closer… come closer…_”

On the threshold, Star Saber looked down at Tyrest- who tried to shield his optics from the harsh white glow- and felt an odd surge of pride. This opportunity was Primus reaching out, calling them both up from the depths of their disgrace. He was _certain_ of it.

“Primus does not hate us,” he said.

And he stepped forward.

…

When Fortress Maximus and Red Alert arrived soon after to investigate the strange quantum surge, the Grand Architect, Tyrest, and Star Saber had all left Luna 1 far from far behind.

~

_The _Peaceful Tyranny_. Not so long ago._

Word traveled fast in space, but sometimes it didn’t travel fast enough.

Tarn retreated to his quarters aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_, clasping Kaon’s datapad with a shaky hand. For several long moments he slumped against the wall and simply stared numbly at it. The message on it looped with every finish, but it fell on deaf optics. Part of him actively refused to listen to what it said; it went against everything he believed, everything he had been _raised_ to believe. Yet here it was, challenging him with a cruel indifference to the strength of his philosophical foundations.

Oh, how they had been _shaken._

It had hurt to leave Kaon and Vos behind on Ofsted XVII, but Tarn had mandated that they never stray outside the system until the Galactic Council left; they could make easy retrieval then. But the retrieval had been anything but easy. _Incomplete_ was never easy. Vos was _dead_, killed too soon by an MP-36 large-scale demolition missile- the results of the rad-scan on what was left of the corpse flashed behind his optical shutters. Only one bot owned that make of missile, and that bot belonged to a crew none of the D.J.D really expected to turn coat.

Helex’s pre-war comrades, the Constructicons.

Tarn had nothing but sympathy for Helex; that revelation had to have been a shock. After all, Helex had grown very close to the Constructicons during their original contributions to the cause, when they had been so nutrient-starved that they had to rely on cannibalizing energon-rich brain modules from their smelting victims in the Dead End. But that sympathy was strangled by his own shock, shock at the revelation that someone close to him had turned coat too.

_Megatron had abandoned the Decepticons._ He had declared them the losers of the war, cast them out from his good graces, and ordered them to submit. That was not how it was supposed to end. It was supposed to end with them victorious, fully freed from Autobot oppression, under a Decepticon utopia where the D.J.D’s line of work would never be needed again.

He hated to admit it, but Tarn was growing weary of his job. He had been for a while. As much as he loved acting in Megatron’s name, it had gotten so mundane of late. He even found that every so often his old self resurfaced, filled him with _repulsion_ at the carnage wrought by his and his men’s hands. He needed a break, a sabbatical, but not one like this.

He stared at the Autobot insignia pasted to Megatron’s chest, dragged fingers across his own mask shaped like the insignia that should have been there instead. He did _not_ want to kill Megatron, not after everything he had given. A new life, a new job, and- rambunctious as they were- new companions. But D.J.D law dictated that every POW, every turncoat, every hindrance to the Decepticon cause was to be exterminated. No matter the rank, the job had to be done.

What was he to do when his occupational duties dictated that he execute the very bot who gave him orders?

His duty was to the Decepticon cause, and he was proud to admit that. But his _loyalties_ were to his men, and to Megatron. And everything in his quarters reminded him of Megatron. Their destination- Messatine, to lay Vos to rest as they had his, and the others’, predecessors- reminded him of Megatron. He took off his mask and stared at it; it reminded him of Megatron. His sense of duty pressed home once again that the job had to be done, but everywhere he looked his loyalty rose to scream against it. Never had he been faced with a situation where his duty and his loyalties conflicted so fiercely. It was almost enough to drive him to a breakdown.

Tarn did not move from his quarters until the _Peaceful Tyranny_ set down on Messatine. His optics did not part from the datapad, and the image it bore of his beloved Megatron. It was as if he was looking at a corpse his men had made and trying not to register that it was there. Except this corpse was the Decepticon cause, and not even shuttering his optics could spare him the sight of it.

On Messatine, they buried Vos outside their complex. Tarn gave a brief eulogy, not trusting his words to fall in line. It had not even been two years. Vos had been somewhat slow to hew to his role in the D.J.D, and Tarn had, admittedly, given him slightly preferential treatment in the interest of acting as his mentor. He had been studying Primal Vernacular to more effectively communicate with Vos; using it here one last time was the least he could do to honor his too-brief memory. He peppered his speech with broken phrases in the language.

But as he talked, his mind drew closer to a conclusion.

And when he finished, he made to act on it.

Inside the complex, Tarn keyed a frequency into the main comm console, a frequency he had never used but kept around just in case. After some moments of hailing, its request for conversation was answered. A familiar blue face appeared on the viewscreen, its red visor glowing in disdain. “_Tarn_,” said the familiar voice. “What do you want?”

“Hello,” Tarn greeted. “Apologies for calling at such an ungodly hour.”

“You are taking time away from my duties. _What do you want?_”

“I want your _help_. Megatron’s defected, as you surely know, and the Constructicons with him-”

The bot on the other side of the screen raised a hand to cut Tarn off. “I know what you are going to ask, and I _refuse_. I will _not_ participate in your slaughter.”

Tarn slapped his hand on the console. “But I _don’t want_ to kill Megatron. I want to _convince_ him to come back to the Decepticons first. I want to try whatever it takes to make him see sense. The job must be done, of course, but that doesn’t mean it has to be done right away. Only if he doesn’t- _won’t_\- change his mind. You’re one of his favorite lieutenants; surely he’ll listen to you. Will you help me try to bring him back?”

“Do you think I have not tried? I have sent my spy to attempt that same thing, to determine if Megatron’s change is genuine.”

“And is it?”

A note of regret entered the red visor. “All signs so far… point to yes. Megatron _still lives_ as an Autobot.”

The emphasis on _still lives_ brought some comfort to Tarn’s spark; so, the spy had not assassinated Megatron, as he had likely been ordered to do at first. “That’s still not the same as finding it out yourself. At least I care enough about Megatron to want to bring my grievances to him _directly_. At least I care enough to want to help him back on the right path myself. Isn’t that what Decepticons are meant to do? Help each other when their _conviction_ _wavers?_”

“Not in the way you do it. The Decepticons are meant to help each other keep their ground, yes, but our methods of doing so must change. We must now work to spread our message among us and others through _peace_, not your _violence_.”

Tarn’s optics narrowed. “I told you, I don’t want to use violence against Megatron,” he spat. “Only as a last resort.”

“But you still intend it, and I cannot support that,” the other bot continued. “I hurt at his leaving, as I imagine you did as well, but it was his choice to go peacefully, and I will not hold it against him. If he wishes to come back to us, I want it to be of his _own accord_, under no threat. If he does not, so be it.”

“You’re starting to sound like an _Autobot_. Shall I put _you_ on the List too?”

“I am no Autobot. I am simply a different Decepticon.”

Tarn sighed. His shoulders slumped. “So that’s it, then? You won’t help me?”

“No. My duty lies with my own right now. I suggest you abandon your hunt before it begins.”

“I will abandon my hunt… after this last one. The job must be done, after all.”

Despite having no face, the other bot appeared disappointed. “If you change your mind, you are always welcome to try joining our station.”

“Perhaps when I retire,” he said sadly. Perhaps then he could go back to the rougher sort of peace his old self had enjoyed. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

“Goodbye, Tarn.”

“Goodbye, Soundwave.”

~

_The Functionist Universe. Right about now._

A very long time passes.

The Mediator reads the weekly datapads.

Several members of the Primal Vanguard have discovered the cameras implanted in their optics and have torn them out in response. The Castigator has left a memo stating that he will deal with the matter personally.

Riots have broken out across the Mediator’s old stomping ground of Ambustus Minor. The Mediator sends Functionary squadrons to clean up with a swipe of his finger.

The Enumerator and the Evaluator have come up with several possible candidates for the next mass recall.

A log of the week’s deaths passes the Mediator’s single optic. He cannot help but feel a sick mirth as he spots several familiar names among those who have died in Luna 2’s labor camps, sent there long ago in the original deportation of the constructed cold and any other defilers of Primus’ will.

_Downshift of Kalis. Deceased._

_Wedge of Pescus Hex. Deceased._

_Side Swipe of Damaxus. Deceased._

_Heavy Load of Petrex. Deceased._

_Eronus of Petrex. Deceased._

_Prowl of Esserlon. Deceased._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little short, but i wanted to take a breather and address some plot points involving the _mtmte_ villains. these will all be relevant in the future, i promise.  
star saber was utterly wasted after he vanished from _remain in light_, and kind of bland within, so i wanted to rectify that. i liked having the opportunity to flesh out some of his religious ideologies and motivations- inspiration was taken mostly from the spanish inquisition- and to show him having a softer side for tyrest.  
tarn's section was originally going to be written from helex's pov, but tarn's canon writing was so broken that i had to step in and fix it. i changed him to be more caring and fatherly to his men, and a little more world-weary and reluctant to kill megatron. the bit at the end was originally going to feature soundwave accepting tarn's offer to join the d.j.d's hunt, but after some thought i decided against it.  
the mediator's section was somewhat of an afterthought, but i wanted to finally address what happened to functionist universe!prowl and his friends after the events of chapter 15. i'll try to do more with the mediator next time he shows up.  
up next: they don't go to earth this time


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Swerve's shoulder stops moving, causing the mutiny to start moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "One second, Skids, one second! Hey, stranger! Decided to show your face around here again, huh? Gotta say, you must have either really good taste or really bad taste to keep coming back here. Or do you just miss me? I think you just miss me.
> 
> "Oh, the sling? Yeah, it's kind of a recent development. Left shoulder's gotten so creaky since last time that it's basically stopped moving, and whenever I try it hurts like the Pit. I chalk that up to all the heavy lifting I've been doing lately. Maybe if I give it a rest, it'll go back to normal. At least, I hope it does. I don't know if all my movement might have permanently damaged it, because First Aid still hasn't told me what's wrong with it. And there's clearly something _visibly_ wrong with it now; look at it! Is my plating supposed to be brown around the edges here?"
> 
> "Anyway, enough about my arm. You're here for your catch-up, aren't you? Well, pull up a stool, there's plenty around. What do you want to drink? I'll make it for you while we talk, or at least I'll try. Mixing drinks one-handed isn't as easy as it looks. Okay, that's the last about my arm, I promise.
> 
> "So. Last time, last time. Last time involves a bit of a history lesson. Way back before we had to go home for a crisis call, we came across this fella who called himself _Star Saber_. He was working with Tyrest on a supposed 'holy quest' to destroy every knockoff spark in existence. Oh, you knew that already? Well then, I guess you know that he survived. Both of them, in fact. And ever since then they've just sort of been hanging out beneath Luna 1's surface, licking their wounds and plotting for revenge. You know, the usual villain stuff.
> 
> "At least, that's what they _were_ doing, until somebody called the _Grand Architect_ transmatted in and offered Star Saber a chance to resume his crusade, plus the tools to heal Tyrest. Star Saber said yes, and that was the last Luna 1's seen of them for a while."
> 
> "Now then, flash forward a bit to _Tarn_. I don't think I need to remind you who Tarn is- leader of the D.J.D, executioner extraordinaire, and classical music lover. A very upstanding guy, minus the murdering. Well, around the time we left Ofsted XVII, he and his cronies finally picked up on the fact that Megatron isn't holding their leashes anymore, and... well, to put it mildly, that put him off a bit. And who could blame him? I know I'd get depressed if my job required I kill my supervisor.
> 
> "Y'know, unless it was Prowl.
> 
> "But I guess Tarn resolved to do it in the end, or at least, he resolved to put it off until he was sure that Megatron turning coat was a permanent thing. News flash for you- I'm pretty sure it is. I don't like it either, mind, but I'm not going to _kill_ him because of it. Oh, and there was also a gratuitous Soundwave cameo! Quick, add him to the block of character tags!
> 
> "And last but certainly not least, _Eleven-of-Twelve_. Surely you remember him? Mediator for the Functionist Council, really skinny cloaked fella, currently confined to an alternate universe? If you don't, he's only three 'previous chapter' clicks away. Anyway, he didn't really do much this time around, except look through some paperwork. But here's something that might knock your socks off... or, whatever it is you're wearing on your feet. That paperwork he was looking through? It had your boy Prowl's name on it.
> 
> "Said he was _deceased_.
> 
> "Oh, come on, it's not like you didn't know it was going to happen. You've had ample time and opportunities to prepare yourself for what was eventually coming. After all, it's been, what, six months in your time?
> 
> "Anyway, that's about it for the recap today. Not much happened, but what did happen was pretty important. That's how it is sometimes. As your reward for sitting through that spiel, here's the drink you ordered- aw scrap, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to drop it! Here, don't worry about cleaning it up, I got it-
> 
> "Hey... has the number of characters left for this box always ended up only in the triple digits by the end of these? Either the character limit has gotten smaller, or... I've gotten... more _long-winded_.
> 
> "Uh-oh."

Prowl was in the medibay with a flickering left optic.

“Did you get in a fight?” asked First Aid, moving his pointer finger from side to side in front of Prowl’s face.

Prowl had no trouble following the finger with both optics, although it was slightly blurry on one side. “Surprisingly, _no_,” he replied.

First Aid clicked on a tiny flashlight and shined it in the flickering optic. “Did you do something to hurt yourself?”

The light was small, but painfully bright. “Only on the inside.”

The light clicked off, and First Aid made a note on his datapad. “I know what the problem is. Your optic is functioning slowly because it’s been under _strain_. Have you been reading in the dark?”

Prowl didn’t want to admit that he had, in fact, been staying up into the wee hours of the night, in the dark of his hab-suite, staring at the file Optimus had forbidden him from opening, for almost the whole past month. He settled for simply saying, “Maybe a bit.”

“That’d do it.” The chief medical officer patted the black-and-white bot on the shoulder. “Put the datapads down a bit earlier at night and the problem should go away within a few days. If you need help falling into recharge, I could give you something.”

“I can recharge _just_ _fine_, but thanks anyway,” Prowl lied as easily as taking a vent. Falling into recharge had always been difficult for him, even before boarding the _Lost Light_, but with the thing he had gotten himself into last week on top of everything else, he could barely get a wink in anymore. It wasn’t that he didn’t like being busy, or that he wasn’t used to it, but he had reached a point where he needed… a sabbatical. A break. At least for a little while.

In the silence that lapsed, Prowl’s gaze drifted to the other end of the medibay; First Aid turned his visor to follow.

Every so often, bots needed to have their energon filtered or, sometimes, replaced in order for it to keep their internal mechanisms from gunking up with accumulated sediment. Older bots needed it more frequently than others, sometimes as often as every other day. Long Haul and Velocity had been put in charge of energon filtering for the day, and they were busy having a friendly argument about how to go about it for Megatron.

“Let’s just use the _fuel pump patch!_” said Long Haul, holding up a square device lined with injection needles on one side and hooked up to a tube on the other. “It’ll feed everything right to his fuel pump and get it circulating ASAP!

“Long Haul, he’s _old_, not critically depleted!” countered Velocity. “A flash injection could hurt him! We need to do it the old-fashioned way.” She held up two IV-like tubes.

“Whatever you choose to do to me,” Megatron rumbled, “at least do it _carefully_, and do it _soon_.”

The interruption caused Velocity to jump in surprise. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Right! So sorry, I almost forgot you were here. Yes, of course we’ll be careful; don’t you worry.” She straightened her spectacles and offered Megatron a bright smile. To Long Haul, she said, “Besides, the old-fashioned way is really the _only way_ I know how to do it. It’ll be more comfortable for me, too.”

Long Haul paused for only the briefest consideration before nodding his consent to the old-fashioned way. He started setting up the filtration machine, hooking up the two tubes to one end of the boxy device and affixing to the other one of the canisters of fool’s energon he had asked Mixmaster to retrieve. For her part, Velocity began to fuss over Megatron, poking his arm to find a pair of conduits for injection, wiping him down with disinfectant, asking him question after question. “Are you sitting comfortably? Will you be okay to stand right after, or will you need a minute? Do you want someone to _hold your hand_ during the process?”

“He’s doing a great job,” said First Aid, in reference to Long Haul. “You should be _proud_ of him, Prowl.”

Prowl made a noise that was as much an acknowledgement as it was an affirmation that, yes, he was indeed proud of Long Haul. “You should be _careful_ with _her_,” he replied.

First Aid was taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

The black-and-white bot jerked his chin toward the teal medic beaming at Megatron. “She’s _new_,” he said. “She doesn’t know about Megatron - his past, his crimes, his everything. That lack of knowledge might open her up to be… _swayed_ by his ‘woe-is-me’ shtick.”

The chief medical officer planted hands on hip struts. “That’s ridiculous. If you’re insinuating that Velocity would _conspire_ to villainy with Megatron-”

“I’m not _insinuating_ anything,” Prowl sighed. “I’m just saying, it’s a possibility. But then, possibilities don’t hold weight unless there are _facts_ to start backing them up. Something might happen, something might not; just be ready for whichever.”

First Aid was about to reply when a new voice interrupted them. Its sudden sounding caused Long Haul to almost drop the filtration machine and Velocity to accidentally stab Megatron in the arm with one of the tubes. (“Sorry!”)

“_Help!_” cried Skids as he rushed into the medibay, a look of pained concern on his face. Then, much quieter, “Please, help.”

And in his arms was the very dirty, very limp body of Swerve.

“Oh Primus,” vented First Aid, practically shoving Prowl off the berth he had been slouching on. “Get him over here!” he instructed Skids, who did so as gently as he could. “Velocity, a hand?”

Velocity looked a question at Long Haul, who nodded. “_Go!_ I got this,” he said. She smiled at him and left the entirety of the filtration machine in his possession while she grabbed a scanner and brought it over to the now-occupied berth. She proceeded to help First Aid fuss over Swerve to see what the problem was. For their part, Prowl and Skids stood off to the side, the former crossing his arms and the latter biting his knuckle worriedly. Megatron didn’t seem to be at all interested.

“What’s wrong, doc?” Skids hazarded after a while.

First Aid sighed as he swiped a readout screen down the side of the red minibot’s chestplate. “_Severe_ neglect. _Self_-neglect. I mean look at him. Joint freeze… minor leakage… low level _form fatigue_…”

“Swerve’s brain activity is _through the roof_, though,” reported Velocity, jerking her hand away from the apparent heat of Swerve’s head. “Spike after spike- like he’s arguing with himself and _losing_.”

“He’s got a day or two, maybe less.”

That really seemed to send Skids over. “A day or two before _what_\- before he _dies?!_ I don’t- _dying…?_ How come?”

“Good question,” said First Aid. “There are no wounds or signs of blunt trauma. And you know even an _energy weapon_ would have left a trace.”

“So open him up! Find out what’s wrong! Please?”

First Aid’s expression shifted to match Skids’ pained one. “His spark’s already _flickering_\- carrying him here took him to the very edge. Exposing him to any surgery- even loosening a screw- could kill him. But… I do have my suspicions. A while ago he started making regular trips in here complaining about his _left arm_ hurting, possibly losing function. I never found anything wrong with it, but…”

“He was wearing a sling on his left arm when he was in the bar,” Skids offered. “Complaining about his shoulder gears freezing up; I could _hear_ them grind whenever he shifted it.”

“If there _is_ something wrong with his left shoulder,” said Velocity, “it’d have to be something _long-festering_. A simple shoulder wound wouldn’t cause this much damage unless it hadn’t been properly cared for.”

First Aid nodded. “An infection. We’ll start there, but be _careful_.”

“Wait, doc,” said Skids, grabbing the chief medical officer’s arm. “There’s something else…” First Aid looked expectantly, awaiting the something else, but the blue bot shook his head instead. “Never mind. It can wait. Just… do your thing. Please.”

First Aid patted Skids on the shoulder and asked him and Prowl to give them some space to work.

Prowl couldn’t see what the medics were doing with their hands as they hunched over Swerve, but he could hear plenty. From the sound First Aid made when he brought his face near Swerve’s shoulder, some infection was indeed festering there. Specifically, a rust infection. He instructed Velocity to inject some fortified nucleon into the joint and pulled Long Haul over with the filtration machine when the tall green bot was finished with Megatron. From what glimpses Prowl caught, the red minibot’s energon was _filthy_.

After some time, First Aid straightened from his hunch and looked approvingly at a medical screen. “Attack the root, kill the weed. Let’s keep him hooked up for a bit longer, but it looks like the detox is working. Good work, you two.”

“Pit yeah, it was good work!” said Long Haul, bopping Velocity on the arm playfully. “See, Lotty? I _told_ you the old-fashioned way was the best method!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must be misremembering,” retorted Velocity, “because I seem to recall that _I_ was the one who said that.” The smile never left her face, though, even as she turned to First Aid with more sincere statements. “First Aid… I’ve never saved a life before. That was my first time- and I can’t stop smiling. _Thank you_. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

“Of course,” said First Aid, beaming as much as he could without a proper face.

The chief medical officer left Long Haul and Velocity to squeal about their accomplishment and made his way back to Prowl and Skids, the latter of whom was massaging his knuckle in relief after chomping down on it so hard. “So what was that something else you wanted to tell me?” he asked Skids.

Skids shrugged. “It’s not important now, I guess; I’m just glad he’s going to recover. How’d he get infected that badly anyhow?”

“A scratch? A stabbing? He must have patched himself up without cleaning the wound. We’ll figure out what got him once he’s awake.”

For his part, Prowl kept his optics on Long Haul, and though his expression did not change, in the pit of his fuel pump he felt that sense of pride again. He was glad that at least someone in his cadre was able to move beyond their sketchy past and successfully endear themselves to the _Lost Light_. A small part of him, a part that he tried to ignore, also felt _envious_ of Long Haul’s success in doing so, because he himself would likely never be able to accomplish that.

An hour or so later any sense of pride in Long Haul was out the metaphorical window.

~

“Remind me why I’m here again?” asked Getaway.

Prowl, Skids, and Getaway found themselves cooped up in a rather crowded office alongside the command triad of Rodimus, Magnus, and Megatron. On the desk between them- a desk that, by some miracle of coincidence, had a perfect map to Cyberutopia scratched into it face- was a deconstructed bullet bearing markings of a different sort.

Prowl knew where this bullet had come from, and he wished Long Haul had never found it. It was tied to another one of his sins.

“You three are here,” said Magnus, “because _despite_ Rodimus’ wishes, we feel it’s very important for you to weigh in on a recent development.” Indeed, Rodimus’ grimace and bouncing on his heels showed that he would rather be anywhere else, with anyone else. “You’re all _ex-Special Operations_, and this is Special Operations material.” To Rodimus, he asked, “Do you want to brief them, or shall I?”

“I’ll do it,” said Rodimus. “It’ll at least save them the _agonizing slideshow_ you probably had for this.” Taking a deep vent, he began. “Those of you who were present for the event can tune out.

“An hour ago, the medical team extracted a bullet from Swerve’s shoulder- the bullet that you see on my desk. This wasn’t any run-of-the-mill bullet; it was a _data bullet_, left there years ago by none other than Spec-Ops’ own D.J.D infiltrator, _Agent 113_. First Aid was very excited to find it, by the way.”

Whatever reaction Rodimus had been expecting, it probably wasn’t the one Skids and Getaway offered. The two bots looked first at each other, then at Prowl with expressions of curiosity. Prowl’s expression did not change from its usual stony glare. “Why didn’t I know we had a D.J.D infiltrator, chief?” asked Getaway.

Skids pinched his chin. “I heard some whispers about ‘something-113’ a few times, but I thought it was made up.” For a bot suffering from self-induced amnesia, Prowl thought, he could certainly recall things very well. Getaway vocalized that thought.

“The Agent 113 project was _top secret_,” explained Prowl. “Only High Command were allowed to know the actual details. You two weren’t High Command.”

“Well, it’s not so top secret anymore. Now that we know he’s real, it’s time to think something else about him,” said Rodimus. “And we think that he’s _dead_.”

“In the report contained within the data bullet, he talks about being compromised,” explained Magnus. “And I’m told that the Vos who attacked the other _Lost Light_ was someone _new_. A replacement. Swerve’s rust infection corrupted most of the rest of the data; we’re left with _fragments_\- details of recent hits, vague references to some sort of _schism_, and a warning- a redundant one- not to trust _Brainstorm_.” The tall blue bot tapped a screen filled with written data. “The most _complete_ entry relates to the chance discovery of the Necrobot’s base of operations. Well, _planet_ of operations.”

“And there’s your slideshow,” said Rodimus.

“It’s only the one slide,” defended Magnus.

“Hold on,” said Prowl, raising his hands in a gesture to slow down, “so the D.J.D just _walked on by_ the supposed house of the supposed ferryman and chronicler of all Cybertronian dead? That seems… more than a bit farfetched.”

Megatron spoke up for the first time since the meeting was assembled. “They don’t have time to _socialize_. In any case, this ‘Necrobot’- _if_ he exists- is supposed to be _non-affiliated_, is he not? Tarn would’ve left him alone.”

“I strongly suggest we do the same,” Magnus supplied. “This has the potential to be the latest in a long line of ‘quick’ detours. Did we learn _nothing_ from our three-week ‘overnight stay’ at the _Cosmic Carnival?_ Aside from how to juggle?”

Skids shrugged again. “Hey, there’s no such thing as a redundant life skill.”

“What does this have to do with us three?” Prowl asked sternly, trying to cut right to the point through the extended babble and snarky asides.

Rodimus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Know him or not, Agent 113 was _your_ man. The info we got is _your_ info. So we feel it’s right that you three should get a say in what we do with it. Do we toss it and move on, or do we visit the coordinates? Please say you want to move on; I’m _dying_ to finally get to use an _actual map_ on this trip.” He ran a hand over the carvings on the desk.

Skids waved a hand. (Prowl wished the blue bot would sit in a chair properly, without his leg cocked up over the armrest.) “I say we _go_. If Agent 113 went through the trouble of sending us that bullet, the stuff on it is probably important. Even if it’s late, it’s at least worth a look.”

“I’m with Skids on that one,” Getaway said, jerking a thumb at his friend. He gave no reason behind his agreeance, but Prowl suspected a wisely unvocalized motive behind it, one that he himself shared.

Every bot in the room looked expectantly at Prowl. “I guess you’re the tiebreaker,” said Rodimus.

Prowl laced his fingers and ran through a quick pros-and-cons list of investigating the coordinates. He ultimately settled for, “We _go_. I know there’s more than just us on this ship who’d be interested in what happens on the Necroworld. Plus, it’d give us an opportunity to tie up any _loose ends_ quickly.”

Getaway coughed into his hand, once again sounding like he was trying to mask a certain three-syllable word that began with “h.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Megatron. “We’re going to the Necroworld. One more detour won’t hurt.”

Rodimus’ expression soured. “Hold on, I thought you advised _against_ going?”

“I never said that.”

The captain pointed at Prowl, Skids, and Getaway. “You three can leave,” he said. “This argument’s going to get ugly fast.”

The three ex-Special Operations bots departed the office and went their separate ways.

Along the path back to his hab-suite, Prowl came across Chromedome, who approached him with unexpected, yet restrained, eagerness. “Prowl, the whole ship’s buzzing about it. Is it _true?_ Do we have the coordinates for the Necroworld?”

The black-and-white bot nodded. “We do. They asked for my input on it, and I said we should go, so I think we are.” He paused. “I thought about it, and I think going there will be a good chance for you. To help you keep your promise.”

The mnemosurgeon’s visor flickered once with a pained memory before stabilizing with a hopeful gleam. “Yeah… I hope so,” he said quietly.

If the Necrobot truly did exist at those coordinates, then it was highly likely he would know the status of Dominus Ambus. Chromedome had promised Rewind that in the event of the latter’s absence, he would pick up the search for the missing bot, find out what had happened to him after he had gone missing. Prowl did not lie when he said that he had considered this in his quick pros-and-cons list. Taking that as an opportunity to further mend his broken relationship with Chromedome had been an easy choice.

But it had also been an easy choice for other reasons.

~

Skids was on his way back to Swerve’s in order to surprise his friend when he got out of the medibay, when he found himself passing though a random, very dark part of the _Lost Light_. He was about to quicken his pace to exit the area- he wasn’t too fond of being alone in the dark- but before he could…

“Hey, Skids. Got a minute?”

The blue bot jumped in surprise at the sudden voice; his optics narrowed as he identified the source. Thought it was dark, it was just bright enough for him to pick out a certain combination of white, pink, and navy. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Getaway tapped his temple. “Hey, escapologists do it _both ways_, remember? But don’t be so jumpy, Skids, I’m not gonna stab you. I just want to talk.”

Skids fidgeted with his hands for a moment. “Look, if it’s about the thing-”

“It is about the thing.”

“Then my answer’s still no.”

Getaway threw his hands into the air. “For crying out loud. You’re still defending Rodimus?”

“He’s our _captain_, Getaway! And like that or not, last I checked mutiny’s _illegal!_”

“Oh, so I guess any neurotic bundle of _ego_ and _immaturity_ can plant their aft in a chair and call themselves a captain. Let me ask you- what kind of captain seems to _actively cause_ half of the disasters their ship runs into?”

“Rodimus doesn’t make the best judgement calls all the time, I’ll freely admit that. But the important thing is when the chips are down, when there _is_ a disaster- one he caused or no- he’s brave enough to try and fix it. And that’s the kind of bravery I want in charge of this ship.”

“Is _that_ what they call it nowadays? I don’t think he’s brave at all. He’s certainly not brave enough to keep this Primus-cursed quest on track.”

“He’s got a map now; you saw it! After the Necroworld, there’s no way we’ll get lost again!”

“That’s not what I meant.” The colorful bot rubbed the space between his optics with his pointer finger. “Let me ask you another thing- why are we here?”

The question took Skids aback for a moment. “Well, that’s one of life’s greatest mysteries, isn’t it?” the blue bot asked in response.

“No, I mean why are we here, on this quest?”

“Oh. We’re going to find the Knights of Cybertron and ask for their help in restoring our home.”

“_Wrong_.”

Skids’ brows beetled. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s the whole point of this quest.”

“It’s not,” said Getaway, shaking his head, “and nobody here with a functioning neuron actually believes that it is anymore. The _actual_ point of this quest is to take Megatron to his final judgment. Whatever purpose it had originally is _gone_. It’s all about _him_ now.”

“Oh,” said Skids quietly. “So it’s really _Megatron_ you’re upset with.”

“Don’t undermine my feelings; I’m _livid_ about Megatron.” Skids was surprised to hear a note of genuine venom creep into Getaway’s voice. “Just because he slapped a red badge on his chest and whined the right way, he’s allowed to roam unchecked through the universe again.”

“Not unchecked. He’s being monitored.”

“Yeah, by a bunch of _trauma-riddled rejects_ who boarded this ship to _escape_ everything he set into motion that they had to go through. Who could blame them for not wanting to do that?”

Skids said nothing. As much as he disagreed with what Getaway was saying, that was actually a fair point.

“And because they’re not going to fight back, he acts like he owns the place- throwing his weight around, allowing all these side errands to happen. Because he knows what’s at the end, Skids, and he doesn’t want to face it. He’s a coward. And Rodimus is a coward for just letting him act like that.”

Skids’ voice finally found its edge again. “Now you listen to me, Getaway,” he growled, angrily pointing a finger at the colorful bot, “don’t you _ever_ call Rodimus a coward in front of me again. Rodimus is the only bot on this ship with the guts to even _attempt_ operating in joint with someone like Megatron. Is he always successful at it? No. But any lesser bot would have quit right from the beginning, would have given up hope of it even barely functioning. Any lesser bot would have tried to do what _you’re planning_. The fact that we’re still going despite the setbacks, despite the disasters, proves that Rodimus is trying to make this thing still work. Because whatever the reason, it still _matters_ to him. And because it matters to him, it matters to _me_.”

There was a tense silence between the two bots, broken only by Skids’ light panting- somehow his speech had taken a lot of air out of him. As he looked at Getaway’s downtrodden face, he felt a strange pity. In all his years of knowing and working with the colorful bot, he had never pegged him as the type to be so… well, there was no other word for it- so _hateful_. It hurt him to see Getaway like this, and he found himself wondering if there was anything he could have done to keep that from happening.

“Look…” he said after several moments. “I’m sorry I called you a lesser bot. As angry as you got me there, I still want to think you’re my friend. And it’s because I think you’re my friend that I’m telling you a mutiny is, well, a really bad idea.”

“Even if it’s against Megatron?” Getaway asked.

“Even if it’s against Megatron.”

Getaway sighed, and after another few moments he looked up at Skids with an expression resembling a smile. “I want to think you’re my friend too, Skids,” he said. “Which is why-” Skids’ optics fell to the colorful bot’s personal subspace as he pulled something out of it- “it’s going to suck for me to have to do this.” The smile vanished, replaced by pure remorse. “This has _got_ to happen if we want to have any hope of finishing. I’m sorry.”

All Skids could think to ask was, “Is that my gun?”

“No,” said Getaway.

** _Phutt._ **

~

Getaway removed the clip from the nudge gun, put the gun back in his personal subspace, and threw the clip away. Its part in his plan had come to an end. He was not particularly religious, but he prayed he would never have to reload it.

~

Prowl did not look over his shoulder as he slipped into the private office. Looking over your shoulder was an indicator of guilt, and he did not feel guilty about what he was going to do.

Getaway and Atomizer were waiting for him, the former fiddling with the tips of his fingers and the latter scrolling through something on a datapad. Atomizer waved as Prowl entered.

“Hey, chief,” greeted Getaway. “You ready?”

Prowl grunted. “Let’s not drag this out.”

The colorful bot nodded. As he input a frequency code into the viewscreen’s console, Prowl reached into his personal subspace and fingered something in there. An idea churned in his brain module for a moment, but he abandoned it… He stepped over to help Getaway fine-tune the hailing signal, and when they stepped away from the console, a crisp image of a vaguely insectoid alien adorned in Galactic Council regalia filled the viewscreen. He glowered at them with milky white eyes.

“I am _General Neech_,” the alien said. “Speak quickly, Cybertronians, before I come to my senses, trace this call, and send out a hunting party.”

“Good day, General,” said Getaway with forced politeness. “I am Getaway, and these are Prowl and Atomizer. We’d like to make you an offer.”

“Why should I listen to this offer of yours?”

A gleam entered Getaway’s optics. “Because we have _Megatron_.”

General Neech appeared visibly caught off guard. He steepled his fingers beneath his vague approximation of a nose. “Go on,” he prompted.

Prowl stepped forward. “For the past several months,” he explained, “our ship has been under the captaincy of the war criminal Megatron, granted amnesty by our people for a change of loyalty we believe to be _false_. We are currently en route to a remote planet, on which we intend to _abandon_ him.”

The alien general nodded, prompting Getaway to continue. “In exchange for our ship’s safe passage through any future Council territory, we’re willing to turn Megatron over to you, to handle as you see fit.”

“Send over the coordinates,” commanded General Neech. “How soon do you intend to arrive?”

“If all goes well, within the week.”

Prowl shuffled back to the console and keyed in the Necroworld’s coordinates for transfer, thumbing one or two unusual switches in the process. “Coordinates sent, general.”

General Neech glanced to one side of the viewscreen. “Coordinates received,” he said. “We will arrive in seven days, and we will expect to see Megatron there.”

“Of course,” Getaway affirmed. “Don’t worry; he'll be hard to miss.”

The connection abruptly cut off, leaving Prowl, Getaway, and Atomizer in a silent office. Getaway broke the silence with, “Well, still a bit more to do, but at least the big thing’s out of the way. Thanks for the help, chief. Keep in touch.”

Prowl nodded a farewell to Getaway as the colorful bot left the office. He lingered a bit longer, pulling something out from a slot in the console, when he suddenly became interested in the datapad Atomizer had remained scrolling through during the call. “What’s that?” he asked.

The spiky red bot held it up for Prowl to see. “Just a list of bots we’ve asked for support in this thing.”

A column of yes’s… a column of no’s- the black-and-white bot wondered what they’d do about those… “What’s the third column?”

“Undecideds. Your _Fervors_ and your _Turbines_. Whether they _back us_ or _block us_ depends on the nature of the _inciting incident_\- which is why I’m hoping we can keep this _small-scale_.”

To Prowl’s surprise, the undecided column wasn’t that much bigger than the column of no’s. He recognized a name in the former column. “I’ll bet you I can get turn at least one of these undecideds into a _yes_ before we get to the Necroworld.”

“In a _week?_ When we couldn’t turn them over in _months?_”

“You two just didn’t have the right kind of prior influence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at the eleventh hour is my attempt to once again turn a (in my opinion) waste of an issue into something much more plot-relevant, and- finally- a return to prowl-centered content. i had fun referencing all the little subplots involving him- his forbidden file, his attempts to reconcile with chromedome, and especially his feelings for the constructicons taking a more positive turn- as well as setting up and developing new ones involving the mutiny. who do you think prowl's going to target in the next chapter?  
my friend asked for more getaway and skids content, which i was already planning on putting into this chapter. writing their argument and having getaway lay it all out on the table was oddly satisfying. and getaway finally got his proper spec-ops reunion.  
something i wanted to add but had to cut for space was swerve's recap going on for so long that he had to physically cross over from the opening notes into the chapter proper to have enough space to finish.  
up next: inside you there are two wolves


End file.
